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THE  SOUL  OF  THE  WAR 


THE 

SOUL  OF  THE  WAR 


BY 

PHILIP   GIBBS 

Special  Correspondent  of  the  London  Daily  Chronicle 

Author  of  "The  Street  of  Adventure"  ''Men  and  Women  of 

the  French  Revolution,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 
ROBERT  M.  McBRIDE  k  CO. 

1918 


Copyright,    1915,    by 
Robert  M.  McBbide  &  Co. 


Second  Printing,  February,  1916 

Third  Printing,  June,  1916 
Fourth  Printing,  January,  1918 


FubHahed  August,    1915 


p 


(oHO 
G'3W7=. 

CONTENTS 

CHAPTEE  PAGE 

I.  THE  FOREBODING  ....     :.     ...     ...     .      .,  1 

II.  MOBILIZATION 15 

III.  THE  SECRET  WAR ,.,     .      .  40 

IV.  THE  WAY  OF  RETREAT    ....     ,.      .      .  67 

>.     V.  THE  TURN  OF  THE  TIDE 105 

cc 

^  VI.  INVASION 131 

CD 

-"VII.  THE  LAST  STAND  OF  THE  BELGIANS    .      .  160 

^IIL  THE  SOUL  OF  PARIS 239 

B    IX.  THE  SOLDIERS  OF  FRANCE 281 

X.  THE  MEN  IN  KHAKI .      .  S34 

CONCLUSION ..,.,..  368 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE  WAR 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE  WAR 


CHAPTER  I 
THE  FOREBODING 

WHAT  man  may  lay  bare  the  soul  of  England  as 
it  was  stirred  during  those  days  of  July  when 
suddenly,  without  any  previous  warning,  loud 
enough  to  reach  the  ears  of  the  mass  of  people,  there  came 
the  menace  of  a  great,  bloody  war,  threatening  all  that  had 
seemed  so  safe  and  so  certain  in  our  daily  life?  England 
suffered  in  those  summer  days  a  shock  which  thrilled  to  its 
heart  and  brain  with  an  enormous  emotion  such  as  a  man  who 
has  been  careless  of  truth  and  virtue  experiences  at  a  "  re- 
vivalist "  meeting  or  at  a  Catholic  mission  when  some  pas- 
sionate preacher  breaks  the  hard  crust  of  his  carelessness  and 
convinces  him  that  death  and  the  judgment  are  very  near, 
and  that  all  the  rottenness  of  his  being  will  be  tested  in  the 
furnace  of  a  spiritual  agony.  He  goes  back  to  his  home  feel- 
ing a  changed  man  in  a  changed  world.  The  very  ticking 
of  the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  of  his  sitting-room  speaks 
to  him  with  a  portentous  voice,  like  the  thunder  strokes  of 
fate.  Death  is  coming  closer  to  him  at  every  tick.  His  lit- 
tle home,  his  household  goods,  the  daily  routine  of  his  toil 
for  the  worldly  rewards  of  life,  his  paltry  jealousies  of  next- 
door  neighbors  are  dwarfed  to  insignificance.  They  no 
longer  matter,  for  the  judgment  of  God  is  at  hand.  The 
smugness  of  his  self-complacency,  his  life-long  hypocrisy  in 
the  shirking  of  truth,  are  broken  up.  He  feels  naked,  and 
afraid,  clinging  only  to  the  hope  that  he  may  yet  have  time 


«  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

to  build  up  a  new  character,  to  acquire  new  spiritual  strength, 
and  to  do  some  of  the  things  he  has  left  undone  —  if  only 
he  had  his  time  over  again !  —  before  the  enemy  comes  to 
grips  with  him  in  a  final  bout. 

That,  with  less  simplicity  and  self-consciousness,  was  the 
spirit  of  England  in  those  few  swift  days  which  followed  the 
Austrian  ultimatum  to  Serbia,  and  Germany's  challenge  to 
France  and  Russia.  At  least  in  some  such  way  one  might 
express  the  mentality  of  the  governing,  official,  political,  and 
so-called  intellectual  classes  of  the  nation  who  could  read 
between  the  lines  of  diplomatic  despatches,  and  saw,  clearly 
enough,  the  shadow  of  Death  creeping  across  the  fields  of 
Europe  and  heard  the  muffled  beating  of  his  drum. 

Some  of  our  public  men  and  politicians  must  have  spent 
tortured  days  and  nights  in  those  last  days  of  July.  They, 
too,  like  the  sinner  at  the  mission  service,  must  have  seen  the 
judgment  of  God  approaching  them.  Of  what  avail  now 
were  their  worldly  ambitions  and  their  jealousies?  They  too 
had  been  smug  in  their  self-complacency,  hypocrites,  shirkers 
of  truth  and  stirrers  up  of  strife,  careless  of  consequences. 
If  only  they  could  have  their  time  over  again!  Great  God! 
was  this  war  with  Germany  an  unavoidable  horror,  or,  if  the 
worst  came,  was  there  still  time  to  cleanse  the  nation  of  its 
rottenness,  to  close  up  its  divisions  and  to  be  ready  for  the 
frightful  conflict? 

All  things  were  changed  in  England  in  a  day  or  two.  The 
things  that  had  mattered  no  longer  mattered.  The  Arming 
of  Ulster  and  the  Nationalists,  Votes  for  Women,  Easier  Di- 
vorce, the  Craze  for  Night  Clubs  —  had  any  of  these  ques- 
tions any  meaning  now  ?  A  truce  was  called  by  the  men  who 
had  been  inflaming  the  people's  passions  to  the  point  of  civil 
war.  The  differences  of  political  parties  seemed  futile  and 
idiotic  now  that  the  nation  itself  might  be  put  to  the  utter- 
most test  of  endurance  by  the  greatest  military  power  in 
Europe.  In  fear,  as  well  as  with  a  nobler  desire  to  rise  out 
of  the  slough  of  the  old  folly  of  life,  the  leaders  of  the  nation 


THE     FOREBODING  8 

abandoned  their  feuds.  Out  of  the  past  voices  called  to  them. 
Their  blood  thrilled  to  old  sentiments  and  old  traditions  which 
had  seemed  to  belong  to  the  lumber-room  of  history,  with 
the  moth-eaten  garments  of  their  ancestors.  There  were  no 
longer  Liberals  or  Conservatives  or  Socialists,  but  only  Eng- 
lishmen, Scotsmen,  Irishmen  and  Welshmen,  with  the  old 
instincts  of  race  and  with  the  old  fighting  qualities  which  in 
the  past  they  had  used  against  each  other.  Before  the  com- 
mon menace  they  closed  up  their  ranks. 

Yet  there  was  no  blood-lust  in  England,  during  those  days 
of  July.  None  of  the  old  jingo  spirit  which  had  inflamed 
great  crowds  before  the  Boer  War  was  visible  now  or  found 
expression.  Among  people  of  thoughtfulness  there  was  a 
kind  of  dazed  incredibility  that  this  war  would  really  happen, 
and  at  the  back  of  this  unbelief  a  tragic  foreboding  and  a 
kind  of  shame  —  a  foreboding  that  secret  forces  were  at 
work  for  war,  utterly  beyond  the  control  of  European  democ- 
racies who  desired  to  live  in  peace,  and  a  shame  that  civiliza- 
tion itself,  all  the  ideals  and  intellectual  activities  and  demo- 
cratic progress  of  modem  Europe,  would  be  thrust  back  into 
the  primitive  barbarities  of  war,  with  its  wholesale,  senseless 
slaughter,  its  bayonet  slashings  and  disembowelings  — 
"  heroic  charges,"  as  they  are  called  by  the  journalists  —  and 
its  gospel  of  hatred.  So  humanity  was  still  beastlike,  as 
twenty  centuries  ago,  and  the  message  of  Christianity  was 
still  unheard.''  Socialistic  theories,  Hague  conventions,  the 
progress  of  intelligence  in  modem  democracy  had  failed 
utterly,  and  once  again,  if  this  war  came  upon  the  world,  not 
by  the  will  of  simple  peoples,  but  by  the  international 
intrigues  of  European  diplomats,  the  pride  of  a  military 
caste  and  the  greed  of  political  tradesmen,  the  fields  of 
Europe  would  be  drenched  with  the  blood  of  our  best  manhood 
and  Death  would  make  an  unnatural  harvesting.  Could 
nothing  stop  this  bloody  business? 

I  think  the  middle  classes  in  England  —  the  plain  men  and 
women  who  do   not  belong  to  intellectual   cliques   or  pro- 


4  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

fessional  politics  —  were  stupefied  by  the  swift  development 
of  the  international  "  situation,"  as  it  was  called  in  the  news- 
papers, before  the  actual  declarations  of  war  which  followed 
with  a  series  of  thunder-claps  heralding  a  universal  tempest. 
Was  it  true  then  that  Germany  had  a  deadly  enmity  against 
us,  and  warlike  ambitions  which  would  make  a  shambles  of 
Europe?  Or  was  it  still  only  newspaper  talk,  to  provide 
sensations  for  the  breakfast  table?  How  could  they  tell, 
these  plain,  ignorant  men  who  had  always  wanted  straight- 
forward facts?  For  years  the  newspaper  press  of  England 
had  been  divided  over  Germany's  ambitions,  precisely  as, 
according  to  their  political  color,  they  had  been  divided  over 
Tariff  Reform  or  Home  Rule  for  Ireland.  The  Liberal  press 
had  jeered  at  the  hair-raising  fears  of  the  Conservative  press, 
and  the  latter  had  answered  the  jeers  by  more  ferocious 
attacks  upon  German  diplomacy  and  by  more  determined 
efforts  to  make  bad  blood  between  the  two  nations.  The 
Liberal  press  had  dwelt  lovingly  upon  the  brotherly  senti- 
ment of  the  German  people  for  their  English  cousins.  The 
Conservative  press  had  searched  out  the  inflammatory 
speeches  of  the  war  lords  and  the  junker  politicians.  It  had 
seemed  to  the  man  in  the  street  a  controversy  as  remote  from 
the  actual  interests  of  his  own  life  —  as  remote  from  the  sub- 
urban garden  in  which  he  grew  his  roses  or  from  the  golf 
links  on  which  he  spent  his  Saturday  afternoons  as  a  discus- 
sion on  the  canals  of  Mars.  Now  and  again,  in  moments  of 
political  excitement,  he  had  taken  sides  and  adopted  news- 
paper phrases  as  his  own,  declaring  with  an  enormous  gravity 
which  he  did  not  really  feel  that  "  The  German  fleet  was  a 
deliberate  menace  to  our  naval  supremacy,"  or  joining  in  the 
chorus  of  "  We  want  eight  and  we  won't  wait,"  or  expressing 
his  utter  contempt  for  "  all  this  militarism,"  and  his  belief 
in  the  "  international  solidarity "  of  the  new  democracy. 
But  there  never  entered  his  inmost  convictions  that  the  day 
might  come  during  his  own  lifetime  when  he  —  a  citizen  of 
Suburbia  —  might  have  to  fight  for  his  own  hearthside  and 


THE     FOREBODING  6 

suffer  the  intolerable  horrors  of  war  while  the  roses  in  his 
garden  were  trampled  down  in  mud  and  blood,  and  while  his 
own  house  came  clattering  down  like  a  pack  of  cards  —  the 
family  photographs,  the  children's  toys,  the  piano  which  he 
had  bought  on  the  hire  system,  all  the  household  gods  which 
he  worshiped,  mixed  up  in  a  heap  of  ruin  —  as  afterwards  at 
Scarborough  and  Hartlepool,  Ipswich,  and  Southend. 

If  such  a  thing  were  possible,  why  had  the  nation  been 
duped  by  its  Government?  Why  had  we  been  lulled  into  a 
false  sense  of  security  without  a  plain  statement  of  facts 
that  would  have  taught  us  to  prepare  for  the  great  ordeal? 
The  Government  ought  to  have  known  and  told  the  truth. 
If  this  war  came  the  manhood  of  the  nation  would  be  unready 
and  untrained.  We  should  have  to  scramble  an  army  to- 
gether, when  perhaps  it  would  be  too  late. 

The  middle  classes  of  England  tried  to  comfort  themselves 
even  at  the  eleventh  hour  by  incredulity. 

"  Impossible !  "  they  cried.  "  The  thing  is  unbelievable. 
It  is  only  a  newspaper  scare  !  " 

But  as  the  hours  passed  the  shadow  of  war  crept  closer, 
and  touched  the  soul  of  Europe. 

In  Fleet  Street,  which  is  connected  with  the  wires  of  the 
world,  there  was  a  feverish  activity.  Walls  and  tables  were 
placarded  with  maps.  Photographs,  gazetteers,  time  tables, 
cablegrams  littered  the  rooms  of  editors  and  news  editors. 
There  was  a  procession  of  literary  adventurers  up  the  steps 
of  those  buildings  in  the  Street  of  Adventure  —  all  those  men 
who  get  lost  somewhere  between  one  war  and  another  and 
come  out  with  claims  of  ancient  service  on  the  battlefields  of 
Europe  when  the  smell  of  blood  is  scented  from  afar;  and 
scores  of  new  men  of  sporting  instincts  and  jaunty  confidence, 
eager  to  be  "  in  the  middle  of  things,"  willing  to  go  out  on 
any  terms  so  long  as  they  could  see  "  a  bit  of  fun,"  ready  to 
take  all  risks.  Special  correspondents,  press  photographers, 
the  youngest  reporters  on  the  staff,  sub-editors  emerging  from 
little  dark  rooms  with  a  new  excitement  in  eyes  that  had 


6  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

grown  tired  with  proof  correcting,  passed  each  other  on  the 
stairs  and  asked  for  their  Chance.  It  was  a  chance  of  seeing 
the  greatest  drama  in  life  with  real  properties,  real  corpses, 
real  blood,  real  horrors  with  a  devilish  thrill  in  them.  It  was 
not  to  be  missed  by  any  self-respecting  journalist  to  whom 
all  life  is  a  stage  play  which  he  describes  and  criticizes  from 
a  free  seat  in  the  front  of  the  house. 

Yet  in  those  newspaper  offices  in  Fleet  Street  there  was  no 
real  certainty.  Even  the  foreign  editors  who  are  supposed  to 
have  an  inside  knowledge  of  international  politics  were  not 
definite  in  their  assertions.  Interminable  discussions  took 
place  over  their  maps  and  cablegrams.  "  War  is  certain." 
"  There  will  be  no  war  as  far  as  England  is  concerned." 
*'  Sir  Edward  Grey  will  arrange  an  international  conference." 
"  Germany  is  bluffing.  She  will  climb  down  at  the  eleventh 
hour.  How  can  she  risk  a  war  with  France,  Russia,  and 
England?  "  "  England  will  stand  out."  "  But  our  honor.'' 
What  about  our  understanding  with  France  ?  " 

There  was  a  profound  ignorance  at  the  back  of  all  these 
opinions,  assertions,  discussions.  Fleet  Street,  in  spite  of  the 
dogmatism  of  its  leading  articles,  did  not  know  the  truth  and 
had  never  searched  for  it  with  a  sincerity  which  would  lead 
now  to  a  certain  conviction.  All  its  thousands  of  articles 
on  the  subject  of  our  relations  with  Germany  had  been  but  a 
clash  of  individual  opinions  colored  by  the  traditional  policy 
of  each  paper,  by  the  prejudice  of  the  writers  and  by  the 
influence  of  party  interests.  The  brain  of  Fleet  Street  was 
but  a  more  intense  and  a  more  vibrant  counterpart  of  the 
national  psychology,  which  in  these  hours  of  enormous  crisis 
was  bewildered  by  doubt  and,  in  spite  of  all  its  activity,  in- 
credulous of  the  tremendous  possibility  that  in  a  few  days 
England  might  be  engaged  in  the  greatest  war  since  the 
Napoleonic  era,  fighting  for  her  life. 

On  my  own  lips  there  was  the  same  incredulity  when  I 
said  good-by.     It  was  on  July  29,  and  England  had  not  yet 


THE     FOREBODING  7 

picked  up  the  gauntlet  which  Germany  had  flung  into  the  face 
of  European  peace. 

"  I  shall  be  back  in  a  few  days.  Armageddon  is  still  a 
long  way  off.  The  idea  of  it  is  too  ridiculous  and  too 
damnable !  " 

I  lay  awake  on  the  night  before  I  left  England  with  the 
credentials  of  a  war  correspondent  on  a  roving  commission, 
and  there  came  into  my  head  a  vision  of  the  hideous  thing 
which  was  being  hatched  in  the  council  chambers  of  Europe, 
even  as  the  little  clock  ticked  on  my  bedroom  mantelpiece. 
I  thrust  back  this  vision  of  blood  by  old  arguments,  old 
phrases  which  had  become  the  rag-tags  of  political  writers. 

War  with  Germany?  A  war  in  which  half  the  nations  of 
Europe  would  be  flung  against  each  other  in  a  deadly  strug- 
gle —  millions  against  millions  of  men  belonging  to  the  peo- 
ples of  the  highest  civilization?  No,  it  was  inconceivable 
and  impossible.  Why  should  England  make  war  upon  Ger- 
many or  Germany  upon  England?  We  were  alike  in  blood 
and  character,  bound  to  each  other  by  a  thousand  ties  of 
tradition  and  knowledge  and  trade  and  friendsliip.  All  the 
best  intellect  of  Germany  was  friendly  to  us.   .  .  . 

In  Hamburg  two  years  ago  I  had  listened  to  speeches 
about  all  that,  obviously  sincere,  emotional  in  their  protesta- 
tions of  racial  comradeship.  That  young  poet  who  had 
become  my  friend,  who  had  taken  me  home  to  his  house  in 
the  country  and  whose  beautiful  wife  had  plucked  roses  for 
me  in  her  garden,  and  said  in  her  pretty  English,  "  I  send 
iny  best  love  with  them  to  England  " —  was  he  a  liar  when 
he  spoke  fine  and  stirring  words  about  the  German  admira- 
tion for  English  literature  and  life,  and  when  —  it  was  late 
in  the  evening  and  we  had  drunk  some  wine  —  he  passed  his 
arm  through  mine  and  said,  "  If  ever  there  were  to  be  a  war 
between  our  two  countries  I  and  all  my  friends  in  Hamburg 
would  weep  at  the  crime  and  the  tragedy  "? 

On  that  trip  to  Hamburg  we  were  banqueted  like  kings, 


8  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

we  English  journalists,  and  the  tables  were  garlanded  with 
flowers  in  our  honor,  and  a  thousand  compliments  were  paid 
to  us  with  the  friendliest  courtesy.  Were  thej  all  liars, 
these  smiling  Germans  who  had  clinked  glasses  with  us? 

Only  a  few  weeks  before  this  black  shadow  of  war  had 
loomed  up  with  its  deadly  menace  a  great  party  of  German 
editors  had  returned  our  visit,  and  once  again  I  had  listened 
to  speeches  about  the  blood-brotherhood  of  the  two  nations, 
a  little  bored  by  the  stale  phrases,  but  glad  to  sit  among 
these  friendly  Germans  whom  I  had  met  in  their  own  country. 
We  clinked  glasses  again,  sang  "  God  Save  the  King  "  and 
the  "  Wacht  am  Rhein,"  compared  the  character  of  German 
and  English  literature,  of  German  and  English  women, 
clasped  hands,  and  said,  "  Auf  wiedersehen !  "  Were  we  all 
liars  in  that  room,  and  did  any  of  the  men  there  know  that 
when  words  of  friendship  were  on  their  lips  there  was  hatred 
in  their  hearts  and  in  each  country  a  stealthy  preparation 
for  great  massacres  of  men?  Did  any  of  those  German 
editors  hear  afar  off  the  thunderstrokes  of  the  Krupp  guns 
which  even  then  were  being  tested  for  the  war  with  France 
and  England?  I  believe  now  that  some  of  them  must  have 
known.  .  .  . 

Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  known,  too,  remembering  the 
tour  which  I  had  made  in  Germany  two  years  before. 

It  was  after  the  Agadir  incident,  and  I  had  been  sent  to 
Germany  by  my  newspaper  on  a  dovelike  mission  of  peace, 
to  gather  sentiments  of  good  will  to  England  from  prominent 
public  men  who  might  desire  out  of  their  intellectual  friend- 
ship to  us  to  pour  oil  on  the  troubled  waters  which  had  been 
profoundly  stirred  by  our  challenge  to  Germany's  foreign 
policy.  I  had  a  sheaf  of  introductions,  which  I  presented  in 
Berlin  and  Leipzig,  Frankfort  and  Diisscldorf,  and  other 
German  towns. 

The  first  man  to  whom  I  addressed  myself  with  amiable 
intent  was  a  distinguished  democrat  who  knew  half  the  mem- 
bers of  the  House  of  Commons  and  could  slap  Liberal  poll- 


THE     FOREBODING  9 

ticians  on  the  back  with  more  familiarity  than  I  should  dare 
to  show.  He  had  spent  both  time  and  trouble  in  organizing 
friendly  visits  between  the  working  men  and  municipalities 
of  both  countries.  But  he  was  a  little  restrained  and  awk- 
ward in  his  manners  when  I  handed  him  my  letter  of  introduc- 
tion. Presently  he  left  the  room  for  a  few  minutes  and  I 
saw  on  his  desk  a  German  newspaper  with  a  leading  article 
signed  by  his  name.  I  read  it  and  was  amazed  to  find  that 
it  was  a  violent  attack  upon  England,  demanding  unforget- 
fulness  and  unforgiveness  of  the  affront  which  we  had  put 
upon  Germany  in  the  Morocco  crisis.  When  the  man  came 
back  I  ventured  to  question  him  about  this  article,  and  he 
declared  that  his  old  friendship  for  England  had  undergone 
a  change.     He  could  give  me  no  expression  of  good  will. 

I  could  get  no  expression  of  good  will  from  any  public 
man  in  Germany.  I  remember  an  angry  interview  with  an 
ecclesiastic  in  Berlin,  a  personal  friend  of  the  Kaiser,  though 
for  many  years  an  ardent  admirer  of  England. 

He  paced  up  and  down  the  room  with  noiseless  footsteps 
on  a  soft  carpet. 

"  It  is  no  time  for  bland  words !  "  he  said.  "  England 
has  insulted  us.  Such  acts  are  not  to  be  tolerated  by  a  great 
nation  like  ours.  There  is  only  one  answer  to  them,  and  it 
is  the  answer  of  the  sword !  " 

I  ventured  to  speak  of  Christian  influences  which  should 
hold  men  back  from  the  brutality  of  war. 

"  Surely  the  Church  must  always  preach  the  gospel  of 
peace?     Otherwise  it  is  false  to  the  spirit  of  Christ." 

He  believed  that  I  intended  to  insult  him,  and  in  a  little 
while  he  rang  the  bell  for  my  dismissal. 

Even  Henry  Bernstein,  the  great  leader  of  the  Social 
Democrats,  could  give  me  no  consoling  words  for  my  paper. 

"  The  spirit  of  nationality,"  he  said  —  and  I  have  a  note 
of  his  words  — "  is  stronger  than  abstract  ideals.  Let  Eng- 
land make  no  mistake.  If  war  were  declared  to-morrow  the 
Social  Democrats  would  march  as  one  man  in  defense  of  the 


la  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

fervently.  My  editor  would  not  believe  him,  and  none  of  his 
words  were  published,  in  my  paper  or  any  other.  But  some- 
times I  used  to  remember  him  and  wonder  whether  perhaps 
in  all  such  warnings  that  came  to  us  there  were  not  a  horrible 
truth  which  one  day,  when  brutally  revealed,  would  make  a 
mockery  of  all  those  men  in  England  who  pooh-poohed  the 
peril,  and  of  the  idealists  who  believed  that  friendly  relations 
with  Germany  could  be  secured  by  friendly  words.  Mean- 
while the  Foreign  Office  did  not  reveal  its  secrets  or  give  any 
clear  guidance  to  the  people  as  to  perils  or  policy  —  to  the 
people  who  would  pay  in  blood  for  ignorance. 

When  I  stood  on  the  deck  of  the  Channel  boat  in  Dover 
Harbor  looking  back  on  England,  whose  white  cliffs  gleamed 
faintly  through  the  darkness,  a  sense  of  tragic  certainty 
came  to  me  that  a  summons  of  war  would  come  to  England, 
asking  for  her  manhood.  Perhaps  it  would  come  to-night. 
The  second  mate  of  the  boat  came  to  the  side  of  the  steamer 
and  stared  across  the  inky  waters,  on  which  there  were  shift- 
ing pathways  of  white  radiance,  as  the  searchlights  of  distant 
warships  swept  the  sea. 

"  God !  "  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Do  you  think  it  will  come  to-night  ?  "  I  asked,  in  the  same 
tone  of  voice.  We  spoke  as  though  our  words  were  dan- 
gerous. 

"  It's  likely.  The  German  fleet  won't  wait  for  any  declara- 
tion, I  should  say,  if  they  thought  they  could  catch  us  nap- 
ping. .  .  .  But  they  won't.  I  fancy  we're  ready  for  them 
—  here,  anyhow !  " 

He  jerked  his  thumb  at  some  dark  masses  looming  through 
the  darkness  in  the  harbor,  caught  here  and  there  by  a  glint 
of  metal  reflected  in  the  water.  They  were  cruisers  and  sub- 
marines nosing  towards  the  harbor  mouth. 

"  There's  a  crowd  of  'em !  "  said  the  second  mate,  "  and 
they  stretch  across  the  Channel.  .  .  .  The  Reserve  men  have 
been  called  out  —  taken  off  the  trams  in  Dover  to-night. 
But  the  public  has  not  yet  woken  up  to  the  meaning  of  it." 


THE     FOREBODING  13 

He  stared  out  to  sea  again,  and  it  was  some  minutes  before 
he  spoke  again. 

"  Queer,  isn't  it  ?  They'll  all  sleep  in  their  beds  to-night 
as  though  nothing  out  of  the  way  were  happening.  And 
yet,  in  a  few  liours,  maybe,  there'll  be  Hell!  That's  what 
it's  going  to  be  —  Hell  and  damnation,  if  I  know  anything 
about  war ! " 

"What's  that?"  I  asked,  pointing  to  the  harbor  bar. 
From  each  side  of  the  harbor  two  searchlights  made  a 
straight  beam  of  light,  and  in  the  glare  of  it  there  passed 
along  the  surface  of  the  sea,  as  it  seemed,  a  golden  serpent 
with  shining  scales. 

"  Sea  gulls,"  said  the  mate.  "  Scared,  I  expect,  by  all 
these  lights.  They  know  something's  in  the  wind.  Perhaps 
they  can  smell  —  blood !  " 

He  spoke  with  a  laugh,  but  it  had  a  strange  sound. 

In  the  saloon  were  about  a  dozen  men,  drinking  at  the 
bar.  They  were  noisy  and  had  already  drunk  too  much. 
By  their  accent  it  was  easy  to  guess  that  they  came  from 
Manchester,  and  by  their  knapsacks,  which  contained  all 
their  baggage,  it  was  obvious  that  they  were  on  a  short  trip 
to  Paris.  A  man  from  Cook's  promised  them  a  "  good 
time !  "  There  were  plenty  of  pretty  girls  in  Paris.  They 
slapped  him  on  the  back  and  called  him  "  old  chap !  " 

A  quiet  gentleman  seated  opposite  to  me  on  a  leather 
lounge  —  I  met  him  afterw^ards  at  the  British  Embassy  in 
Paris  — ■  caught  my  eye  and  smiled. 

"  They  don't  seem  to  worry  about  the  international  situ- 
ation. Perhaps  it  will  be  easier  to  get  to  Paris  than  to  get 
back  again !  " 

"  And  now  drinks  all  round,  lads ! "  said  one  of  the 
trippers. 

On  deck  there  were  voices  singing.  It  was  the  hymn  of 
the  Marseillaise.  I  went  up  towards  the  sound  and  found  a 
party  of  young  Frenchmen  standing  aft,  waving  farewells  to 
England,  as  the  siren  hooted,  above  a  rattle  of  chains  and 


14  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

the  crash  of  the  gangway  which  dropped  to  the  quayside. 
Thej  had  been  called  back  to  their  country  to  defend  its  soil 
and,  unlike  the  Englishmen  drinking  themselves  fuddled,  were 
intoxicated  by  a  patriotic  excitement. 

"  Vive  I'Angleterre !  " 

An  answer  came  back  from  the  quayside. 

"  Vive  la  France !  " 

It  was  to  this  shout  that  we  warped  away  from  the  jetty 
and  made  for  the  open  sea.  A  yacht  with  white  sails  all 
agleam  as  it  crossed  the  bar  of  a  searchlight  so  that  it  seemed 
like  a  fairy  ship  in  the  vision  of  a  dream,  crept  into  the  har- 
bor and  then  fluttered  into  the  darkness  below  the  Admiralty 
pier. 

"  That's  a  queer  kind  of  craft  to  meet  to-night ! "  I  said 
to  the  second  mate.     "  What  is  she  doing?  " 

"  I'd  like  to  know.  She's  got  a  German  skipper  and  crew. 
Spies  all  of  them,  I  guess.     But  nobody  seems  to  bother." 

There  were  spies  watching  our  own  boat  as  we  went  across 
the  Channel,  but  they  were  on  English  vessels.  Searchlights 
from  many  warships  turned  their  rays  upon  us,  staring  at 
us  from  stem  to  stern,  following  us  with  a  far-flung  vigilance, 
transmuting  the  base  metal  of  our  funnel  and  brasswork  into 
shining  silver  and  burnished  gold.  As  I  stared  back  into  the 
blinding  rays  I  felt  that  the  eyes  of  the  warships  could  look 
into  my  very  soul,  and  I  walked  to  the  other  side  of  the  boat 
as  though  abashed  by  this  scrutiny.  I  looked  back  to  the 
shore,  with  its  winking  lights  and  looming  clifi"s,  and  wished 
I  could  see  by  some  kind  of  searchlight  into  the  soul  of  Eng- 
laml  on  this  night  of  fate.  Beyond  the  cliffs  of  Dover,  in 
the  profound  darkness  of  the  night,  England  seemed  asleep. 
Did  not  her  people  hear  the  beating  of  Death's  war  drums 
across  the  fields  of  Europe,  growing  louder  and  louder,  so 
that  on  a  cross-Channel  boat  I  heard  it  booming  in  my  ears, 
louder  than  the  wind? 


CHAPTER  II 
MOBILIZATION 

THE  thunderbolt  came  out  of  a  blue  sky  and  in  the 
midst  of  a  brilliant  sunshine  which  gleamed  blindingly 
above  the  white  houses  of  Paris  and  flung  back  shad- 
ows from  the  poplars  across  the  long  straight  roads  between 
the  fields  of  France.  The  children  were  playing  as  usual  in 
the  gardens  of  the  Tuileries,  and  their  white-capped  nurses 
were  sewing  and  chatting  in  the  shade  of  the  scorched  trees. 
The  old  bird  man  was  still  calling  "  Viens  !  Viens !  "  to  the 
sparrows  who  came  to  perch  on  his  shoulders  and  peck  at  the 
bread  between  his  lips,  and  Punch  was  still  performing  his 
antique  drama  in  the  Petit  Guignol  to  laughing  audiences  of 
boys  and  girls.  The  bateaux  monches  on  the  Seine  were 
carrying  heavy  loads  of  pleasure-seekers  to  Sevres  and  other 
riverside  haunts.  In  the  Pavilion  Bleu  at  St.  Cloud  elegant 
little  ladies  of  the  demi-monde  sipped  rose-tinted  ices  and 
said  for  a  thousand  times :  "  Ciel,  comme  it  fait  chaud !  ^ 
and  slapped  the  hands  of  beaky-nosed  young  men  with  white 
slips  beneath  their  waistcoats  and  shiny  boots  and  other 
symbols  of  a  high  civilization.  Americans  in  Panama  hats 
sauntered  down  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  staring  in  the  shop  win- 
dows at  the  latest  studies  of  nude  women,  and  at  night  went 
in  pursuit  of  adventure  to  Montmartre,  where  the  orchestras 
at  the  Bal  Tabarin  were  still  fiddling  mad  tangoes  in  a  com- 
petition of  shrieking  melody  and  where  troops  of  painted 
ladies  in  the  Folies  Bergeres  still  paraded  in  the  promenoir 
with  languorous  eyes,  through  wafts  of  sickly  scent.  The 
little  tables  were  all  along  the  pavements  of  the  boulevards 
and   the    terrasses   were   crowded   with    all   those   bourgeois 

Frenchmen  and  their  women  who  do  not  move  out  of  Paris 

15 


16  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

even  in  the  dogdays,  but  prefer  the  scenery  of  their  familiar 
streets  to  that  of  Dieppe  and  Le  Touquet.  It  was  the  same 
old  Paris  —  crowded  with  Cook's  tourists  and  full  of  the 
melody  of  life  as  it  is  played  by  the  hoot  of  motor  horns,  the 
clang  of  steam  trams,  the  shrill-voiced  camelots  shouting 
"  La  Presse !  La  Presse !  "  and  of  the  light  laughter  of 
women. 

Then  suddenly  the  thunderbolt  fell  with  its  signal  of  war, 
and  in  a  few  days  Paris  was  changed  as  though  by  some 
wizard's  spell.  Most  of  the  children  vanished  from  the 
Tuileries  gardens  with  their  white-capped  nurses,  and  the 
sparrows  searched  in  vain  for  their  bird  man.  Punch  gave 
a  final  squawk  of  dismay  and  disappeared  when  the  theater 
of  the  Petit  Guignol  was  packed  up  to  make  way  for  a  more 
tragic  drama.  A  hush  fell  upon  Montmartre,  and  the  mu- 
sicians in  its  orchestras  packed  up  their  instruments  and 
scurried  with  scared  faces  —  to  Berlin,  Vienna,  and  Buda- 
pest. No  more  boats  went  up  to  Sevres  and  St.  Cloud  with 
crowds  of  pleasure-seekers.  The  Seine  was  very  quiet  be- 
neath its  bridges,  and  in  the  Pavilion  Bleu  no  dainty  crea- 
tures sat  sipping  rose-tinted  ices  or  slapped  the  hands  of 
the  beaky-nosed  boys  who  used  to  pay  for  them.  The 
women  were  hiding  in  their  rooms,  asking  God  —  even  before 
the  war  they  used  to  ask  God  funny  questions  —  how  they 
were  going  to  live  now  that  their  lovers  had  gone  away  to 
fight,  leaving  them  with  nothing  but  the  memory  of  a  last 
kiss  wet  with  tears.  It  was  not  enough  to  live  on  for  many 
days. 

During  the  last  days  of  July  and  the  first  days  of  August 
Paris  was  stunned  by  the  shock  of  this  menace,  which  was 
approaching  swiftly  and  terribly.  War!  But  why?  Why, 
in  the  name  of  God,  should  France  be  forced  into  a  war  for 
which  she  was  not  prepared,  for  which  she  had  no  desire, 
because  Austria  had  issued  an  ultimatum  to  Serbia,  demand- 
ing the  punishment  of  a  nation  of  cut-throats  for  the  murder 
of  an  unnecessary  Archduke.''     Germany  was  behind  the  busi- 


MOBILIZATION  17 

ness,  Germany  was  forcing  the  pace,  exasperating  Russia, 
presenting  a  grim  face  to  France  and  rattling  the  sword  in 
its  scabbard  so  that  it  resounded  through  Europe.  Well, 
let  her  rattle,  so  long  as  France  could  keep  out  of  the  whole 
affair  and  preserve  that  peace  in  which  she  had  built  up 
prosperity  since  the  nightmare  of  1870! 

L'annee  terrible!     There  were  many  people  in  France  who 
remembered  that  tragic  year,  and  now,  after  forty-four  years, 
the  memory  came  back,  and  they  shuddered.     They  had  seen 
the  horrors  of  war  and  knew  the  meaning  of  it  —  its  waste 
of  life,  its  sacrifice  of  splendid  young  manhood,  its  wanton 
cruelties,  its  torture  of  women,  its  misery  and  destruction. 
France  had  been  brought  to  her  knees  then  and  had  suffered 
the  last  humiliations  which  may  be  inflicted  upon  a  proud 
nation.     But  she  had  recovered  miraculously,  and  gradually 
even  her  desire  for  revenge,  the  passionate  hope  that  one  day 
she  might  take  vengeance  for  all  those  indignities  and  cruel- 
ties, had  cooled  down  and  died.     Not  even  for  vengeance  was 
war  worth  while.     Not  even  to  recover  the  lost  provinces 
was  it  worth  the  lives  of  all  those  thousands  of  young  men 
who  must  give  their  blood  as  the  price  of  victory.     Alsace 
and  Lorraine  were  only  romantic  memories,  kept  alive  by  a 
few   idealists   and  hotheads,  who   once  a  year  went  to  the 
statue  in  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  and  deposited  wreaths  and 
made  enthusiastic   speeches   which   rang   false,   and   pledged 
their    allegiance   to    the   lost   provinces — "  Quand   meme!" 
There  was  a  good  deal  of  blague  in  these  annual  ceremonies, 
laughed   at   by   Frenchmen   of   common   sense.     Alsace   and 
Lorraine  had  been  Germanized.     A  Frenchman  would  find  few 
people  there  to  speak  his  own  tongue.     The  old  ties  of  senti- 
ment had  worn  very  thin,  and  there  was  not  a  party  in  France 
who  would  have  dared  to  advocate  a  war  with  Germany  for 
the  sake  of  this  territory.     Such  a  policy  would  have  been  a 
crime  against  France  itself,  which  had  abandoned  the  spirit 
of  vengeance,  and  had  only  one  ambition  —  to  pursue  its 
ideals  and  its  business  in  peace. 


18  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

There  was  no  wild  outbreak  of  jingo  fever,  no  demonstra- 
tions of  blood-lust  against  Germany  in  Paris  or  any  town  of 
France,  on  that  first  day  of  August,  when  the  people  waited 
for  the  fateful  decision  which,  if  it  were  for  war,  would  call 
ever}"  able-bodied  man  to  the  colors  and  arrest  all  the  activi- 
ties of  a  nation's  normal  life,  and  demand  a  dreadful  sacrifice 
in  blood  and  tears.  There  was  only  a  sense  of  stupefaction 
which  seemed  to  numb  the  intelligence  of  men  so  that  they 
could  not  reason  with  any  show  of  logic,  or  speak  of  this 
menace  without  incoherence,  but  thrust  back  the  awful  possi- 
bility with  one  word,  uttered  passionately  and  repeated  a 
thousand  times  a  day :     Incroyahle! 

This  word  was  dinned  in  my  ears.  I  caught  the  sound  of 
it  as  I  walked  along  the  boulevards.  It  would  come  like  a 
refrain  at  the  end  of  sentences  spoken  by  little  groups  of 
men  and  women  sitting  outside  the  cafes  and  reading  every 
issue  of  those  innumerable  newspapers  which  flung  out 
editions  at  every  hour.  It  was  the  answer  I  had  from  men 
of  whom  I  tried  to  get  a  clue  to  the  secret  movements  of 
diplomacy,  and  an  answer  to  that  question  of  war  or  peace. 
"  C'est  incroyable !  "  They  found  it  hard  to  believe  —  they 
would  not  believe  —  that  without  any  provocation  from 
France,  without  any  challenge,  Germany  would  deliberately 
force  this  war  upon  the  Triple  Entente  and  make  a  bloody 
shambles  of  European  civilization.  Beneath  this  incredulity, 
this  stupefaction,  there  was  among  most  of  the  Frenchmen 
whom  I  personally  encountered  a  secret  dread  that  France 
was  unready  for  the  great  ordeal  of  war  and  that  its  out- 
break would  find  her  divided  by  political  parties,  inefficient 
in  organization,  corrupt  in  some  of  her  Government  depart- 
ments. The  Socialists  and  Syndicalists  who  had  fought 
against  the  three  years'  service  might  refuse  to  march.  Only 
a  few  months  before  a  deputy  had  hinted  at  grave  scandals 
in  the  provisioning  and  equipment  of  the  army.  The  history 
of  1870,  with  its  awful  revelations  of  disorganization  and 
unreadiness,  was  remembered  now  and  lay  heavy  upon  the 


MOBILIZATION  19 

hearts  of  those  educated  Frenchmen  who,  standing  outside 
the  political  arena,  distrust  all  politicians,  having  but  little 
faith  in  their  honesty  or  their  ability.  Who  could  tell 
whether  France  —  the  new  France  she  had  been  called  — 
would  rise  above  her  old  weaknesses  and  confront  the  peril 
of  this  war  with  a  strong,  pure,  and  undivided  spirit? 

On  August  1  there  was  a  run  on  one  of  the  banks.  I 
passed  its  doors  and  saw  them  besieged  by  thousands  of  mid- 
dle-class men  and  women  drawn  up  in  a  long  queue,  waiting 
very  quietly  —  with  a  strange  quietude  for  any  crowd  in 
Paris  —  to  withdraw  the  savings  of  a  lifetime  or  the  capital 
of  their  business  houses.  There  were  similar  crowds  outside 
other  banks,  and  on  the  faces  of  these  people  there  was  a 
look  of  brooding  fear,  as  though  all  that  they  had  fought 
and  struggled  for,  the  reward  of  all  their  petty  economies 
and  meannesses,  and  shifts  and  tricks,  and  denials  of  self-in- 
dulgences and  starvings  of  soul,  might  be  suddenly  snatched 
from  them  and  leave  them  beggared.  A  shudder  went 
through  one  such  crowd  when  a  young  man  came  to  speak  to 
them  from  the  steps  of  the  bank.  It  was  a  kind  of  shudder- 
ing sigh,  followed  by  loud  murmurings,  and  here  and  there 
angry  protests.  The  cashiers  had  been  withdrawn  from  their 
desks  and  checks  could  not  be  paid. 

"  We  are  ruined  already !  "  said  a  woman.  "  This  war 
will  take  all  our  money !     Oh,  my  God !  " 

She  made  her  way  through  the  crowd  with  a  fixed  white 
face  and  burning  eyes. 

It  was  strange  how  in  a  day  all  gold  disappeared  from 
Paris.  I  could  not  see  the  glint  of  it  anywhere,  unless  I 
drew  it  from  my  own  purse.  Even  silver  was  very  scarce 
and  everybody  was  trying  to  cash  notes,  which  were  refused 
by  the  shopkeepers.  When  I  put  one  of  them  down  on  a 
table  at  the  Cafe  Tourtel  the  waiter  shook  his  head  and  said, 
"  La  petite  monnaie,  s'il  vous  plait !  "  At  another  place 
where  I  put  down  a  gold  piece  the  waiter  seized  it  as  though 
it  were  a  rare  and  wonderful  thing,  and  then  gave  me  all  my 


20  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

change  in  paper,  made  up  of  new  five  franc  notes  issued  by 
the  Government.  In  the  evening  an  official  notice  was  posted 
on  the  walls  prohibiting  the  export  of  grain  and  flour.  Peo- 
ple stared  at  it  and  said,  "  That  means  war !  "  Another 
sign  of  coming  events,  more  impressive  to  the  imagination  of 
the  Parisian,  was  the  sudden  dwindling  in  size  of  the  evening 
newspapers.  They  were  reduced  to  two  sheets,  and  in  some 
cases  to  a  single  broadside,  owing  to  the  possibility  of  a 
famine  in  paper  if  war  broke  out  and  cut  off  the  supplies  of 
Paris  while  the  railways  were  being  used  for  the  mobilization 
of  troops. 

The  city  was  very  quiet  and  outwardly  as  calm  as  on  any 
day  in  August.  But  beneath  this  normal  appearance  of 
things  there  was  a  growing  anxiety  and  people's  nerves  were 
so  on  edge  that  any  sudden  sound  would  make  a  man  start  on 
his  chair  on  the  terrasse  outside  the  cafe  restaurant.  Paris 
was  afraid  of  itself.  What  uproar  or  riot  or  criminal  dem- 
onstration might  not  burst  suddenly  into  this  tranquillity? 
There  were  evil  elements  lurking  in  the  low  quarters. 
Apaches  and  anarchists  might  be  inflamed  with  the  madness 
of  blood  which  excites  men  in  time  of  war.  The  Socialists 
and  Syndicalists  might  refuse  to  fight,  and  fight  in  maintain- 
ing their  refusal.  Some  political  crime  might  set  all  those 
smoldering  passions  on  fire  and  make  a  hell  in  the  streets. 
So  people  waited  and  watched  the  crowds  and  listened  to  the 
pulse  beat  of  Paris. 

The  sharp  staccato  of  revolver  shots  heard  in  the  Rue 
Montmartre  on  the  night  of  July  '31  caused  a  shudder  to 
pass  through  the  city,  as  though  they  were  the  signal  for  a 
criminal  plot  which  might  destroy  France  by  dividing  it  while 
the  enemy  was  on  the  frontier. 

I  did  not  hear  those  shots  but  only  the  newspaper  reports 
which  followed  them  almost  as  loudly  in  the  soul  of  Paris. 
And  yet  it  was  only  the  accidental  meeting  of  a  friend  which 
diverted  my  attention  of  dining  in  the  Croissant  Restaurant 


MOBILIZATION  21 

in  which  the  crime  took  place  at  the  very  hour  when  I  should 
have  been  there.  Some  years  before  in  Paris,  when  France 
was  in  the  throes  of  a  railway  strike  which  developed  almost 
to  the  verge  of  revolution,  I  had  often  gone  to  the  Croissant 
at  two,  three,  or  four  in  the  morning,  because  it  had  police 
privileges  to  keep  open  all  night  for  the  comfort  of  journal- 
ists. Other  night  birds  had  found  this  roost  —  ladies  who 
sleep  by  day,  and  some  of  the  queer  adventurers  of  the  city 
which  never  goes  to  bed.  One  night  I  had  come  into  the 
midst  of  a  strange  company  —  the  inner  circle  of  Parisian 
anarchists  who  were  celebrating  a  victory  over  French  law. 
Their  white  faces  had  eyes  like  live  coals.  They  thrust  long 
thin  fingers  through  shaggy  hair  and  spoke  passionate 
orations  nose  to  nose.  Their  sluttish  women  shrieked  with 
mirth  and  gave  their  kisses  to  the  leader  of  the  gang,  who 
had  the  face  of  Christ  as  painted  by  Ary  Scheffer. 

It  was  in  this  interesting  place,  on  the  very  velvet  cushions 
where  I  used  to  sit  to  watch  the  company,  that  Jaures  was 
killed  on  the  eve  of  the  war.  The  veteran  orator  of  French 
socialism,  the  man  who  could  stir  the  passions  of  the  mob  — 
as  I  had  seen  more  than  once  —  so  that  at  his  bidding  they 
would  declare  war  against  all  the  powers  of  Government,  was 
struck  down  as  he  sat  with  his  back  to  an  open  window  di- 
vided from  the  street  by  a  thin  curtain.  The  young  assassin 
—  a  patriot  he  called  himself  —  had  been  excited  to  an 
hysteria  of  hate  for  a  man  who  had  tried  to  weaken  the  mili- 
tary power  of  France  by  opposing  the  measure  for  a  three- 
years'  service.  It  was  the  madness  of  war  which  had  touched 
his  brain,  and  although  Jaures  had  called  upon  the  Social- 
ists of  France  to  march  as  one  man  in  defense  of  "  La  Patrie," 
this  young  neurasthenic  made  him  the  first  victim  of  that 
enormous  sacrifice  of  blood  which  has  since  reeked  up  to  God. 
Jaures,  an  honest  man,  perhaps,  in  spite  of  all  his  theatrical 
appeals  to  mob  passion  —  honest  at  least  in  his  desire  to 
make  life  more  tolerable  for  the  sweated  workers  of  France  — 


22  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

was  mortally  wounded  by  those  shots  through  the  window 
blind,  and  the  crimson  cushions  of  his  seat  were  dyed  with 
deeper  stains. 

For  twenty-four  hours  France  was  scared  by  the  murder. 
It  seemed  possible  that  the  crime  might  let  loose  a  tide  of 
passion  among  the  followers  of  the  Socialist  leader.  Pla- 
cards were  hastily  posted  on  the  walls  by  the  military  gov- 
ernor of  Paris  professing  abhorrence  of  the  assassination  of 
a  great  Frenchman,  promising  a  just  punishment  of  the 
crime,  and  calling  upon  the  people  to  remain  calm  in  this 
great  national  crisis  which  would  decide  the  destiny  of 
France. 

The  appeal  was  not  challenged.  By  a  strange  irony  of 
fate  the  death  of  Jaures  strengthened  the  Government  which 
he  had  attacked  throughout  his  life,  and  the  dead  body  of 
the  man  of  strife  became,  on  its  way  to  the  grave,  the  symbol 
of  a  united  France,  of  obedience  to  its  laws,  and  of  a  martial 
fer\'or  which  in  the  old  days  of  rebellion  he  had  ridiculed 
and  denounced.  On  a  gusty  day  I  saw  the  Red  Flag  of  revo- 
lutionary socialism  fluttering  across  the  Place  de  la  Concorde 
in  front  of  the  coffin  containing  the  corpse  of  its  leader. 
Blood  red,  flag  after  flag  streamed  past,  all  aglow  in  the 
brilliant  sunshine,  and  behind  walked  the  representatives  of 
every  party  in  the  state,  including  all  those  who  had  de- 
nounced Jaures  in  life  as  a  traitor,  a  revolutionist,  and  the 
most  evil  influence  in  France.  For  the  first  time  in  history 
the  aristocrats  and  the  monarchists,  the  Conservative  Repub- 
licans and  the  Clericals,  walked  in  procession  behind  the 
blood-red  flag. 

Part  of  the  active  army  of  France  was  already  on  the 
frontiers.  Before  the  first  whisper  of  war  had  reached  the 
ears  of  the  people,  large  bodies  of  troops  had  been  sent  to 
the  frontier  towns  to  strengthen  the  already  existing  garri- 
sons. But  the  main  army  of  the  nation  was  pursuing  the 
ordinary  pursuits  of  civil  life.  To  resist  the  might  of  Ger- 
many, the  greatest  military  Power  in  Europe,  already  ap- 


MOBILIZATION  23 

preaching  the  frontiers  in  vast  masses  of  men  and  machines, 
France  would  have  to  call  out  all  her  manhood  which  had 
been   trained   in   military   service. 

Aux  armes,  citoyens! 
Formez  vos  hataUlons! 

The  call  to  arms  came  without  any  loud  clamor  of  bugles 
or  orations.  Unlike  the  scenes  in  the  early  days  of  1870, 
there  were  no  street  processions  of  civil  enthusiasts.  No 
painted  beauty  of  the  stage  waved  the  tricolor  to  the  shout 
of  "A  Berlin!"  No  mob  orators  jumped  upon  the  cafe 
tables  to  wave  their  arms  in  defiance  of  the  foe  and  to 
prophesy  swift  victories. 

The  quietness  of  Paris  was  astounding,  and  the  first  mobil- 
ization orders  were  issued  with  no  more  publicity  than  attends 
the  delivery  of  a  trade  circular  through  the  halfpenny  post. 
Yet  in  hundreds  of  thousands  of  houses  through  France  and 
in  all  the  blocks  and  tenements  of  Paris  there  was  a  drama 
of  tragic  quietude  when  the  cards  were  delivered  to  young 
men  in  civilian  clothes,  men  who  sat  at  table  with  old  mothers 
or  young  wives,  or  in  lowly  rooms  with  some  dream  to  keep 
them  company,  or  with  little  women  who  had  spoiled  the 
dream,  or  fostered  it,  or  with  comrades  who  had  gone  on 
great  adventures  with  them  between  the  Quartier  Latin  and 
the  Mountain  of  Montmartre. 

"  It  has  come!  " 

Fate  had  come  with  that  little  card  summoning  each  man 
to  join  his  depot,  and  tapped  him  on  the  shoulder  with  just  a 
finger  touch.  It  was  no  more  than  that  —  a  touch  on  the 
shoulder.  Yet  I  know  that  for  many  of  those  young  men  it 
seemed  a  blow  between  the  eyes,  and,  to  some  of  them,  a 
strangle-grip  as  icy  cold  as  though  Death's  fingers  were  al- 
ready closing  round  their  throats. 

I  seem  to  hear  the  silence  in  those  rooms  when  for  a  mo- 
ment or  two  young  men  stared  at  the  cards  and  the  formal 
words  on  them,  and  when,  for  just  that  time,  all  that  life, 


U  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

and  death,  means,  came  before  their  souls.  Was  this  the 
sunnnons,  Death  itself?  Somewhere  on  the  German  side  was 
a  little  steel  bullet  or  a  bit  of  shell  waiting  for  the  French- 
man to  whom  it  was  destined.  How  long  would  it  have  to 
wait  to  find  its  billet?  Perhaps  only  a  day  or  two  —  a  ques- 
tion of  hours,  slipping  away  now  towards  eternity  as  the 
clock  ticked  on.  .  .  .  From  the  old  mother,  or  the  young 
wife,  from  the  little  woman  whose  emotions  and  quarrels, 
greediness  or  self-denial,  had  seemed  all  that  mattered  in 
life,  all  that  life  meant  to  a  young  man  of  twenty-five  or  so, 
there  came  perhaps  a  cry,  a  name  spoken  with  grief,  or  no 
word  at  all  but  the  inarticulate  expression  of  foreboding, 
terror,  and  a  woman's  anguish. 

"  Jean !  .  .  .  Mon  petit !  .  .  .  0,  mon  pauvre !  " 

"  C'est  pour  la  patrie  .  .  .  mon  devoir  .  .  .  je  reviendrai 
bientot.   .  .  .   Courage,  ma  femme !  " 

Courage !  How  many  million  times  was  the  word  spoken 
that  night  of  mobilization  by  women  who  saw  the  sudden 
pallor  of  their  men,  by  men  who  heard  the  cry  of  their 
women?  I  heard  it  in  the  streets,  spoken  quite  brutally  some- 
times, by  men  afraid  of  breaking  down,  and  with  a  passionate 
tenderness  by  other  men,  sure  of  their  own  strength  but  piti- 
ful for  those  whose  spirit  fainted  at  the  specter  of  Death 
which  stood  quite  close. 

In  the  days  that  followed  the  second  of  August  I  saw  the 
whole  meaning  of  mobilization  in  France  —  the  call  of  a  na- 
tion to  arms  —  from  Paris  to  the  eastern  frontier,  and  the 
drama  of  it  all  stirs  me  now  as  I  write,  though  many  months 
have  passed  since  then  and  I  have  seen  more  awful  things  on 
the  harvest  fields  of  death.  More  awful,  but  not  more  piti- 
ful. For  even  in  the  sunshine  of  that  August,  before  blood 
had  been  spilt  and  the  brooding  specter  of  war  had  settled 
drearily  over  Europe,  there  was  a  poignant  tragedy  beneath 
the  gallantry  and  the  beauty  of  that  squadron  of  cavalry 
that  I  had  seen  riding  out  of  their  barrack  gates  to  entrain 
for  the  front.     The  men  and  the  horses  were  superb  —  clean- 


MOBILIZATION  »6 

limbed,  finely  trained,  exquisite  in  their  pride  of  life.  As 
they  came  out  into  the  streets  of  Paris  the  men  put  on  the 
little  touch  of  swagger  which  belongs  to  the  Frenchman  when 
the  public  gaze  is  on  him.  Even  the  horses  tossed  their  heads 
and  seemed  to  realize  the  homage  of  the  populace.  Hun- 
dreds of  women  were  in  the  crowd,  waving  handkerchiefs, 
springing  forward  out  of  their  line  to  throw  bunches  of 
flowers  to  those  cavaliers,  who  caught  them  and  fastened 
them  to  kepi  and  jacket.  The  officers  —  young  dandies  of 
the  Chasseurs  —  carried  great  bouquets  already  and  kissed 
the  petals  in  homage  to  all  the  womanhood  of  France  whose 
love  they  symbolized.  There  were  no  tears  in  that  crowd, 
though  the  wives  and  sweethearts  of  many  of  the  young  men 
must  have  stood  on  the  curbstone  to  watch  them  pass.  At 
those  moments,  in  the  sunshine,  even  the  sting  of  parting  was 
forgotten  in  the  enthusiasm  and  pride  which  rose  up  to  those 
splendid  ranks  of  cavalry  who  were  on  their  way  to  fight  for 
France  and  to  uphold  the  story  of  their  old  traditions.  I 
could  see  no  tears  then  but  my  own,  for  I  confess  that  sud- 
denly to  my  eyes  there  came  a  mist  of  tears  and  I  was  seized 
with  an  emotion  that  made  me  shudder  icily  in  the  glare  of 
the  day.  For  beyond  the  pageantry  of  the  cavalcade  I  saw 
the  fields  of  war,  with  many  of  those  men  and  horses  lying 
mangled  under  the  hot  sun  of  August.  I  smelt  the  stench 
of  blood,  for  I  had  been  in  the  muck  and  misery  of  war  before 
and  had  seen  the  death  carts  coming  back  from  the  battle- 
field and  the  convoys  of  wounded  crawling  down  the  rutty 
roads  —  from  Adrianople  —  with  men,  who  had  been  strong 
and  fine,  now  shattered,  twisted,  and  made  hideous  by  pain. 
The  flowers  carried  by  those  cavalry  officers  seemed  to  me 
like  funeral  wreaths  upon  men  who  were  doomed  to  die,  and 
the  women  who  sprang  out  of  the  crowds  with  posies  for 
their  men  were  offering  the  garlands  of  death. 

In  the  streets  of  Paris  in  those  first  days  of  the  war  I  saw 
many  scenes  of  farewell.  All  day  long  one  saw  them,  so  that 
at  last  one  watched  them  without  emotion,  because  the  pathos 


26  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

of  them  became  monotonous.  It  was  curious  how  men  said 
good-by,  often,  to  their  wives  and  children  and  comrades  at 
a  street  corner,  or  in  the  middle  of  the  boulevards.  A  hun- 
dred times  or  more  I  saw  one  of  these  conscript  soldiers  who 
had  put  on  his  uniform  again  after  years  of  civilian  life, 
turn  suddenly  to  the  woman  trudging  by  his  side  or  to  a 
group  of  people  standing  round  him  and  say :  "  Alors,  il 
faut  dire  '  Adieu  '  et  *  Au  revoir  ' !  "  One  might  imagine  that 
he  was  going  on  a  week-end  visit  and  would  be  back  again  in 
Paris  on  Monday  next.  It  was  only  by  the  long-drawn  kiss 
upon  the  lips  of  the  woman  who  raised  a  dead-white  face  to 
him  and  by  the  abruptness  with  which  the  man  broke  away 
and  walked  off  hurriedly  until  he  was  lost  in  the  passing 
crowds  that  one  might  know  that  this  was  as  likely  as  not 
the  last  parting  between  a  man  and  a  woman  who  had  known 
love  together  and  that  each  of  them  had  seen  the  vision  of 
death  which  would  divide  them  on  this  side  of  the  grave. 
The  stoicism  of  the  Frenchwomen  was  wonderful.  They 
made  no  moan  or  plaint.  They  gave  their  men  to  "  La 
Patrie  "  "with  the  resignation  of  religious  women  who  offer 
their  hearts  to  God.  Some  spiritual  fervor,  which  in  France 
permeates  the  sentiment  of  patriotism,  giving  a  beauty  to 
that  tradition  of  nationality  which,  without  such  a  spirit,  is 
the  low  and  ignorant  hatred  of  other  peoples,  strengthened 
and  uplifted  them. 

Sometimes  when  I  watched  these  scenes  I  raged  against 
the  villainy  of  a  civilization  which  still  permits  these  people 
to  be  sent  like  sheep  to  the  slaughter.  Great  God !  These 
poor  wretches  of  the  working  quarters  in  Paris,  these  young 
peasants  from  the  fields,  these  underpaid  clerks  from  city 
offices,  had  had  no  voice  in  the  declaration  of  war.  What 
could  they  know  about  international  politics?  Why  should 
they  be  the  pawns  of  the  political  chessboard,  played  without 
any  regard  for  human  life  by  diplomats  and  war  lords  and 
high  financiers.''  These  poor  weedy  little  men  with  the  sal- 
low faces  of  the  clerical  class,  in  uniforms  which  hung  loose 


MOBILIZATION  27 

round  their  undeveloped  frames,  why  should  they  be  caught 
in  the  trap  of  this  horrible  machine  called  "  War  "  and  let 
loose  like  a  lot  of  mice  against  the  hounds  of  death?  These 
peasants  with  slouching  shoulders  and  loose  limbs  and  clumsy 
feet,  who  had  been  bringing  in  the  harvest  of  France,  after 
their  tilling  and  sowing  and  reaping,  why  should  they  be 
marched  off  into  tempests  of  shells  which  would  hack  off 
their  strong  arms  and  drench  unfertile  fields  with  their  blood? 
They  had  had  to  go,  leaving  all  the  things  that  had  given  a 
meaning  and  purpose  to  their  days,  as  though  God  had  com- 
manded them,  instead  of  groups  of  politicians  among  the 
nations  of  Europe,  damnably  careless  of  human  life.  How 
long  will  this  fetish  of  international  intrigue  be  tolerated  by 
civilized  democracies  which  have  no  hatred  against  each  other, 
until  it  is  inflamed  by  their  leaders  and  then,  in  war  itself,  by 
the  old  savageries  of  primitive  nature? 

I  went  down  to  the  eastern  frontier  on  the  first  day  of 
mobilization.  It  was  in  the  evening  when  I  went  to  take 
the  train  from  the  Gare  de  I'Est.  The  station  was  filled  with 
a  seething  crowd  of  civilians  and  soldiers,  struggling  to  get 
to  the  booking-ofllices,  vainly  seeking  information  as  to  the 
times  of  departure  to  distant  towns  of  France.  The  railway 
officials  were  bewildered  and  could  give  no  certain  informa- 
tion. The  line  was  under  military  control.  Many  trains 
had  been  suppressed  and  the  others  had  no  fixed  time-table. 
I  could  only  guess  at  the  purpose  animating  the  individuals 
in  these  crowds.  Many  of  them,  perhaps,  were  provincials, 
caught  in  Paris  by  the  declaration  of  war  and  desperately 
anxious  to  get  back  to  their  homes  before  the  lines  were 
utterly  choked  by  troop  trains.  Others  belonged  to  neutral 
countries  and  were  trying  to  escape  across  the  frontier  be- 
fore the  gates  were  closed.  One  of  the  "  neutrals  "  spoke  to 
me  —  in  German,  which  was  a  dangerous  tongue  in  Paris. 
He  was  a  Swiss  who  had  come  to  Paris  on  business  for  a  few 
days,  leaving  his  wife  in  a  village  near  Basel.  It  was  of  his 
wife  that  he  kept  talking. 


28  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

"  Ach,  mein  armes  Weib !     Sie  hat  Angst  fiir  mich." 

I  pitied  this  little  man  in  a  shoddy  suit  and  limp  straw 
hat  who  had  tears  in  his  eyes  and  no  courage  to  make  in- 
quiries of  station  officials  because  he  spoke  no  word  of  French. 
I  asked  on  his  behalf,  and  after  jostling  for  half  an  hour  in 
the  crowd  and  speaking  to  a  dozen  porters  who  shrugged 
their  shoulders  and  said,  "  Je  n'en  sais  rien !  "  came  back 
with  the  certain  and  doleful  news  that  the  last  train  had  left 
that  night  for  Basel.  The  little  Swiss  was  standing  between 
his  packages  with  his  back  to  the  wall,  searching  for  me  with 
anxious  eyes,  and  when  I  gave  him  the  bad  news  tears  trickled 
down  his  face. 

"Was  kann  ich  thun?  Mein  armes  Weib  hat  Angst  fiir 
mich." 

There  was  nothing  he  could  do  that  night,  however  anxious 
his  poor  wife  might  be,  but  I  did  not  have  any  further  con- 
versation with  him,  for  my  bad  German  had  already  at- 
tracted the  notice  of  the  people  standing  near,  and  they  were 
glowering  at  me  suspiciously,  as  though  I  were  a  spy. 

It  was  an  hour  later  that  I  found  a  train  leaving  for 
Nancy,  though  even  then  I  was  assured  by  railway  officials 
that  there  was  no  such  train.  I  had  faith,  however,  in  a 
young  French  officer  who  pledged  his  word  to  me  that  I 
should  get  to  Nancy  if  I  took  my  place  in  the  carriage  before 
which  he  stood.     He  was  going  as  far  as  Toul  himself. 

I  could  see  by  the  crimson  velvet  round  his  kepi  that  he 
was  an  army  doctor,  and  by  the  look  of  sadness  in  his  eyes 
that  he  was  not  glad  to  leave  the  beautiful  woman  by  his 
side  who  clasped  his  arm.     They  spoke  to  me  in  English. 

"  This  war  will  be  horrible ! "  said  the  lady.  "  It  is  so 
senseless  and  so  unnecessary.  Why  should  Germany  want 
to  fight  us.'*  There  has  been  no  quarrel  between  us  and  we 
wanted  to  live  in  peace." 

The  young  officer  made  a  sudden  gesture  of  disgust. 

"  It    is    a    crime   against   humanity  —  a    stupid,    wanton 

nr•^rr\p  '     ' 


MOBILIZATION  29 

Then  he  asked  a  question  earnestly  and  waited  for  my 
answer  with  obvious  anxiety : 

"Will  England  join  in?" 

I  said  "  Yes !  "  with  an  air  of  absolute  conviction,  though 
on  that  night  England  had  not  yet  given  her  decision.  Dur- 
ing the  last  twenty-four  hours  I  had  been  asked  this  question 
a  score  of  times.  The  people  of  Paris  were  getting  very 
anxious.  If  England  did  not  keep  her  unwritten  pledge  to 
France,  it  would  be  dangerous  and  a  shameful  thing  to  be  an 
Englishman  in  Paris.  Some  of  my  friends  were  already  be- 
ginning to  feel  their  throats  with  nervous  fingers. 

"  I  think  so  too !  "  said  the  officer,  when  he  heard  my  an- 
swer.    "  England  will  be  dishonored  otherwise !  " 

The  platform  was  now  thronged  with  young  men,  many 
of  them  being  officers  in  a  variety  of  brand-new  uniforms, 
but  most  of  them  still  in  civilian  clothes  as  they  had  left 
their  workshops  or  their  homes  to  obey  the  mobilization 
orders  to  join  their  military  depots.  The  young  medical 
officer  who  had  been  speaking  to  me  withdrew  himself  from 
his  wife's  arm  to  answer  some  questions  addressed  to  him 
by  an  old  colonel  in  his  own  branch  of  service.  The  lady 
turned  to  me  and  spoke  in  a  curiously  intimate  way,  as 
though  we  were  old  friends. 

"  Have  you  begun  to  realize  what  it  means  ?  I  feel  that 
I  ought  to  weep  because  my  husband  is  leaving  me.  .  .  . 
We  have  two  little  children.  .  .  .  But  there  are  no  tears 
higher  than  my  heart.  It  seems  as  though  he  were  just 
going  away  for  a  week-end  —  and  yet  he  may  never  come 
back  to  us.     Perhaps  to-morrow  I  shall  weep." 

She  did  not  weep  even  when  the  train  was  signaled  to 
start  and  when  the  man  put  his  arms  about  her  and  held  her 
in  a  long  embrace,  whispering  down  to  her.  Nor  did  I  see 
any  tears  in  other  women's  eyes  as  they  waved  farewell. 
It  was  only  the  pallor  of  their  faces  which  showed  some 
hidden  agony. 

Before  the  train  started  the  carriage  in  which  I  had  taken 


so  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

my  seat  was  crowded  with  young  men  who,  excepting  one 
cavalry  officer  in  the  corner,  seemed  to  belong  to  the  poorest 
classes  of  Paris.  In  the  corner  opposite  the  dragoon  was  a 
boy  of  eighteen  or  so  in  the  working  clothes  of  a  terrassier 
or  laborer.  No  one  had  come  to  see  him  off  to  the  war,  and 
he  was  stupefied  with  drink.  Several  times  he  staggered  up 
and  vomited  out  of  the  window  with  an  awful  violence  of 
nausea,  and  then  fell  back  with  his  head  lolling  sideways  on 
the  cushions  of  the  first-class  carriage.  None  of  the  other 
men  —  except  the  cavalry  officer,  who  drew  in  his  legs  slightly 
—  took  the  slightest  interest  in  this  poor  wretch  —  a  hand- 
some lad  with  square-cut  features  and  fair  tousled  hair,  who 
had  tried  to  get  courage  out  of  absinthe  before  leaving  for 
the  war. 

In  the  corner  opposite  my  own  seat  was  a  thin  pallid  young 
man,  also  a  little  drunk,  but  with  an  excited  brain  in  which 
a  multitude  of  strange  and  tragic  thoughts  chased  each  other. 
He  recognized  me  as  an  Englishman  at  once,  and  with  a  shout 
of  "  Camarade !  "  shook  hands  with  me  not  once  but  scores 
of  times  during  the  first  part  of  our  journey. 

He  entered  upon  a  monologue  that  seemed  interminable, 
his  voice  rising  into  a  shrill  excitement  and  then  sinking  into 
a  hoarse  whisper.  He  belonged  to  the  "  apache  "  type,  and 
had  come  out  of  one  of  those  foul  lairs  which  lie  hidden  be- 
hind the  white  beauty  of  Paris  —  yet  he  spoke  with  a  terrible 
eloquence  which  kept  me  fascinated.  I  remember  some  of 
his  words,  though  I  cannot  give  them  his  white  heat  of  pas- 
sion, nor  the  infinite  pathos  of  his  self-pity. 

"  I  have  left  a  wife  behind,  the  woman  who  loves  me  and 
sees  something  more  in  me  than  vileness.  Shall  I  tell  you 
how  I  left  her.  Monsieur?  Dying  —  in  a  hospital  at  Charen- 
ton.  I  shall  never  see  her  again.  I  shall  never  again  take 
her  thin  white  face  in  my  dirty  hands  and  say,  '  You  and  I 
have  tasted  the  goodness  of  life,  my  little  one,  while  we  have 
starved  together ! '  For  life  is  good.  Monsieur,  but  in  a  little 
while  I  shall  be  dead  in  one  place  and  my  woman  in  another. 


MOBILIZATION  81 

That  is  certain.  I  left  a  child  behind  me  —  a  little  girl. 
What  will  happen  to  her  when  I  am  killed?  I  left  her  with 
the  concierge,  who  promised  to  take  care  of  her  —  not  for 
money,  you  understand,  because  I  had  none  to  give.  My 
little  girl  will  never  see  me  again,  and  I  shall  never  see  her 
grow  into  a  woman.  Because  I  am  going  to  be  killed. 
Perhaps  in  a  day  or  two  there  will  be  no  more  life  for  me. 
This  hand  of  mine  —  you  see  I  can  grasp  things  with  it, 
move  it  this  way  and  that,  shake  hands  with  you  —  cama- 
rade !  —  salute  the  spirit  of  France  with  it  —  comme  9a ! 
But  to-morrow  or  the  next  day  it  will  be  quite  still.  A  dead 
thing  —  like  my  dead  body.  It  is  queer.  Here  I  sit  talk- 
ing to  you  alive.  But  to-morrow  or  the  next  day  my  corpse 
will  lie  out  on  the  battlefield,  like  a  bit  of  earth.  I  can  see 
that  corpse  of  mine,  with  its  white  face  and  staring  eyes. 
Ugh !  it  is  a  dirty  sight  —  a  man's  corpse.  Here  in  my  heart 
something  tells  me  that  I  shall  be  killed  quite  soon,  perhaps 
at  the  first  shot.  But  do  you  know  I  shall  not  be  sorry  to 
die.  ...  I  shall  be  glad,  Monsieur  t  And  why  glad,  you 
ask?  Because  I  love  France  and  hate  the  Germans  who  have 
put  this  war  on  us.  I  am  going  to  fight  —  I,  a  Socialist 
and  a  Syndicalist  —  so  that  we  shall  make  an  end  of  war,  so 
that  the  little  ones  of  France  shall  sleep  in  peace,  and  the 
women  go  without  fear.  This  war  will  have  to  be  the  last 
war.  It  is  a  war  of  Justice  against  Injustice.  When  they 
have  finished  this  time  the  people  will  have  no  more  of  it. 
We  who  go  out  to  die  shall  be  remembered  because  we  gave 
the  world  peace.  That  will  be  our  reward,  though  we  shall 
know  nothing  of  it  but  lie  rotting  in  the  earth  —  dead !  It 
is  sad  that  to-morrow,  or  the  next  day,  I  shall  be  dead.  I 
see  my  corpse  there  — " 

He  saw  his  corpse  again,  and  wept  a  little  at  the  sight  of  it. 

A  neurotic  type  —  a  poor  weed  of  life  who  had  been 
reared  in  the  dark  lairs  of  civilization.  Yet  I  had  no  con- 
tempt for  him  as  he  gibbered  with  self-pity.  The  tragedy 
of  the  future  of  civilization  was  in  the  soul  of  that  pallid, 


32  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

sharp-featured,  ill-nourished  man  who  had  lived  in  misery 
within  the  glitter  of  a  rich  city  and  who  was  now  being  taken 
to  his  death  —  I  feel  sure  he  died  in  the  trenches  even  though 
no  bullet  may  have  reached  him  —  at  the  command  of  great 
Powers  Avho  knew  nothing  of  this  poor  ant.  What  did  his 
individual  life  matter?  ...  I  stared  into  the  soul  of  a  sol- 
dier of  France  and  wondered  at  the  things  I  saw  in  it  —  at 
the  spiritual  faith  which  made  a  patriot  of  that  apache. 

There  was  a  change  of  company  in  the  carriage,  the  demo- 
crats being  turned  into  a  third-class  carriage  to  make  way 
for  half  a  dozen  officers  of  various  grades  and  branches.  I 
had  new  types  to  study  and  was  surprised  by  the  calmness 
and  quietude  of  these  men  —  mostly  of  middle  age  —  who 
had  just  left  their  homes  for  active  service.  They  showed 
no  signs  of  excitement  but  chatted  about  the  prospects  of 
the  war  as  though  it  were  an  abstract  problem.  The  atti- 
tude of  England  was  questioned  and  again  I  was  called  upon 
to  speak  as  the  representative  of  my  country  and  to  assure 
Frenchmen  of  our  friendship  and  cooperation.  They  seemed 
satisfied  with  my  statements  and  expressed  their  belief  that 
the  British  fleet  would  make  short  work  of  the  enemy  at 
sea. 

One  of  the  officers  took  no  part  in  the  conversation.  He 
was  a  handsome  man  of  about  forty  years  of  age,  in  the  uni- 
form of  an  infantry  regiment,  and  he  sat  in  the  corner  of  the 
carriage,  stroking  his  brown  mustache  in  a  thoughtful  way. 
He  had  a  fine  gravity  of  face  and  once  or  twice  when  his  eyes 
turned  my  way  I  saw  an  immense  sadness  in  them. 

As  our  train  passed  through  France  on  its  way  to  Nancy, 
we  heard  and  saw  the  tumult  of  a  nation  arming  itself  for 
war  and  pouring  down  to  its  frontiers  to  meet  the  enemy. 
All  through  the  night,  as  we  passed  through  towns  and  vil- 
lages and  under  railway  bridges,  the  song  of  the  Marseillaise 
rose  up  to  the  carriage  windows  and  then  wailed  away  like 
a  sad  plaint  as  our  engine  shrieked  and  raced  on.  At  the 
sound  of  the  national  hymn  one  of  the  officers  in  my  carriage 


MOBILIZATION  83 

always  opened  his  eyes  and  lifted  his  head,  which  had  been 
drooping  forward  on  his  chest,  and  listened  with  a  look  of 
puzzled  surprise,  as  though  he  could  not  realize  even  yet 
that  France  was  at  war  and  that  he  was  on  his  way  to  the 
front.  But  the  other  officers  slept,  and  the  silent  man,  whose 
quiet  dignity  and  sadness  had  impressed  me,  smiled  a  little 
in  his  sleep  now  and  then  and  murmured  a  word  or  two, 
among  which  I  seemed  to  hear  a  woman's  name. 

In  the  dawn  and  pallid  sunlight  of  the  morning  I  saw  the 
soldiers  of  France  assembling.  They  came  across  the  bridges 
with  glinting  rifles,  and  the  blue  coats  and  red  trousers  of 
the  infantry  made  them  look  in  the  distance  like  tin  soldiers 
from  a  children's  playbox.  But  there  were  battalions  of 
them  close  to  the  railway  lines,  waiting  at  level  crossings,  and 
with  stacked  arms  on  the  platforms,  so  that  I  could  look  into 
their  eyes  and  watch  their  faces.  They  were  fine  young  men, 
with  a  certain  hardness  and  keenness  of  profile  which  prom- 
ised well  for  France.  There  was  no  shouting  among  them, 
no  patriotic  demonstrations,  no  excitability.  They  stood 
waiting  for  their  trains  in  a  quiet,  patient  way,  chatting 
among  themselves,  smiling,  smoking  cigarettes,  like  soldiers 
on  their  w'ay  to  sham  fights  in  the  ordinary  summer  maneu- 
vers. The  town  and  village  folk,  who  crowded  about  them 
and  leaned  over  the  gates  at  the  level  crossings  to  watch  our 
train,  were  more  demonstrative.  They  waved  hands  to  us 
and  cried  out  "  Bonne  chance ! "  and  the  boys  and  girls 
chanted  the  Marseillaise  again  in  shrill  voices.  At  every 
station  where  we  halted,  and  we  never  let  one  of  them  go  by 
without  a  stop,  some  of  the  girls  came  along  the  platform 
with  baskets  of  fruit,  of  which  they  made  free  gifts  to  our 
trainload  of  men.  Sometimes  they  took  payment  in  kisses, 
quite  simply  and  without  any  bashfulness,  lifting  their  faces 
to  the  lips  of  bronzed  young  men  who  thrust  their  hepis 
back  and  leaned  out  of  the  carriage  windows. 

"  Come  back  safe  and  sound,  my  little  one,"  said  a  girl. 
"  Fight  well  for  France !  " 


S4  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

"  I  do  not  hope  to  come  back,"  said  a  soldier,  "  but  I  shall 
die  fighting." 

The  fields  were  swept  with  the  golden  light  of  the  sun, 
and  the  heavy  foliage  of  the  trees  sang  through  every  note  of 
green.  The  white  roads  of  France  stretched  away  straight 
between  the  fields  and  the  hills,  with  endless  lines  of  poplars 
as  their  sentinels,  and  in  clouds  of  grayish  dust  rising  like 
smoke  the  regiments  marched  with  a  steady  tramp.  Gun 
carriages  moved  slowly  down  the  roads  in  a  glare  of  sun 
which  sparkled  upon  the  steel  tubes  of  the  field  artillery  and 
made  a  silver  bar  of  every  wheel-spoke.  I  heard  the  creak 
of  the  wheels  and  the  rattle  of  the  limber  and  the  shouts  of 
the  drivers  to  their  teams ;  and  I  thrilled  a  little  every  time 
we  passed  one  of  these  batteries  because  I  knew  that  in  a 
day  or  two  these  machines,  which  were  being  carried  along 
the  highways  of  France,  would  be  wreathed  with  smoke 
denser  than  the  dust  about  them  now,  while  they  vomited 
forth  shells  at  the  unseen  enemy  whose  guns  would  answer 
with  the  roar  of  death. 

Guns  and  men,  horses  and  wagons,  interminable  convoys 
of  munitions,  great  armies  on  the  march,  trainloads  of  sol- 
diers on  all  the  branch  lines,  soldiers  bivouacked  in  the  road- 
ways and  in  market  places,  long  processions  of  young 
civilians  carrying  bundles  to  military  depots  where  they 
would  change  their  clothes  and  all  their  way  of  life  —  these 
pictures  of  preparation  for  war  flashed  through  the  carriage 
windows  into  my  brain,  mile  after  mile,  through  the  country 
of  France,  until  sometimes  I  closed  my  eyes  to  shut  out  the 
glare  and  glitter  of  this  kaleidoscope,  the  blood-red  color  of 
all  those  French  trousers  tramping  through  the  dust,  the 
lurid  blue  of  all  those  soldiers'  overcoats,  the  sparkle  of  all 
those  gun-wheels.  What  does  it  all  mean,  this  surging  tide 
of  armed  men?  What  would  it  mean  in  a  day  or  two,  when 
another  tide  of  men  had  swept  up  against  it,  with  a  roar  of 
conflict,  striving  to  overwhelm  this  France  and  to  swamp 
over  its  barriers  in  waves  of  blood.?     How  senseless  it  seemed 


MOBILIZATION  85 

that  those  mild-eyed  fellows  outside  my  carriage  "windows, 
chatting  with  the  girls  while  we  waited  for  the  signals  to 
fall,  should  be  on  their  way  to  kill  other  mild-eyed  men,  who 
perhaps  away  in  Germany  were  kissing  other  girls,  for  gifts 
of  fruit  and  flowers. 

It  was  at  this  station  near  Toul  that  I  heard  the  first 
words  of  hatred.  They  were  in  a  conversation  between  two 
French  soldiers  who  had  come  with  us  from  Paris.  They 
had  heard  that  some  Germans  had  already  been  taken  pris- 
oners across  the  frontier,  and  they  were  angry  that  the  men 
were  still  alive. 

"  Prisoners  ?  Pah !  Name  of  a  dog !  I  will  tell  you  what 
I  would  do  with  German  prisoners !  " 

It  was  nothing  nice  that  that  man  wanted  to  do  with  Ger- 
man prisoners.  He  indulged  in  long  and  elaborate  details 
as  to  the  way  in  which  he  would  wreathe  their  bowels  about 
his  bayonet  and  tear  out  their  organs  with  his  knife.  The 
other  man  had  more  imagination.  He  devised  more  ingen- 
ious modes  of  torture  so  that  the  Germans  should  not  die  too 
soon. 

I  watched  the  men  as  they  spoke.  They  had  the  faces 
of  murderers,  with  bloodshot  eyes  and  coarse  features, 
swollen  with  drink  and  vice.  There  was  a  life  of  cruelty  in 
the  lines  about  their  mouths,  and  in  their  husky  laughter. 
Their  hands  twitched  and  their  muscles  gave  convulsive  jerks, 
as  they  worked  themselves  into  a  fever  of  blood-lust.  In  the 
French  Revolution  it  was  such  men  as  these  who  leered  up 
at  the  guillotine  and  laughed  when  the  heads  of  patrician 
women  fell  into  the  basket,  and  who  did  the  bloody  work  of 
the  September  massacre.  The  breed  had  not  died  out  in 
France,  and  war  had  brought  it  forth  from  its  lairs  again. 

These  men  were  not  typical  of  the  soldiers  of  France.  In 
the  headquarters  at  Nancy,  where  I  was  kept  waiting  for 
some  time  in  one  of  the  guard-rooms  before  being  received 
by  the  commandant,  I  chatted  with  many  of  the  men  and 
found  them  fine  fellows  of  a  good,  clean,  cheery  type.     When 


36  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

they  heard  that  I  was  a  war  correspondent,  they  plied  me 
with  greetings  and  questions.  "You  are  an  English  jour- 
nalist ?  You  want  to  come  with  us  ?  That  is  good !  Every 
Englishman  is  a  comrade  and  we  will  give  you  some  fine  things 
to  write  about !  " 

They  showed  me  their  rifles  and  their  field  kit,  asked  me  to 
feel  the  weight  of  their  knapsacks,  and  laughed  when  I  said 
that  I  should  faint  with  such  a  burden.  In  each  black  sack 
the  French  soldier  carried  —  in  addition  to  the  legendary 
baton  of  a  field-marshal  —  a  complete  change  of  undercloth- 
ing, a  second  pair  of  boots,  provisions  for  two  days,  consist- 
ing of  desiccated  soup,  chocolate,  and  other  groceries,  and  a 
woolen  night-cap.  Then  there  were  his  tin  water-bottle,  or 
bidon  (filled  with  wine  at  the  beginning  of  the  war),  his 
cartridge  belt,  rifle,  military  overcoat  strapped  about  his 
shoulders,  and  various  other  impedimenta. 

"  It's  not  a  luxury,  this  life  of  ours,"  said  a  tall  fellow 
with  a  fair  mustache  belonging  to  the  famous  20th  Regiment 
of  the  line,  which  was  the  first  to  enter  Nancy  after  the  Ger- 
man occupation  of  the  town  in  1870. 

He  pointed  to  the  rows  of  straw  beds  on  which  some  of 
his  comrades  lay  asleep,  and  to  the  entire  lack  of  comfort  in 
the  whitewashed  room. 

"  Some  of  you  English  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  would  hardly 
like  to  lie  down  here  side  by  side  with  the  peasants  from  their 
farms,  smelling  of  their  barns.  But  in  France  it  is  different. 
We  have  aristocrats  still,  but  some  of  them  have  to  shake 
down  with  the  poorest  comrades  and  know  no  distinction  of 
rank  now  tliat  all  wear  the  same  old  uniform." 

It  seemed  to  me  a  bad  uniform  for  modern  warfare  — 
the  red  trousers  and  blue  coat  and  the  little  kepi  made  fa- 
mous in  many  great  battle  pictures  —  but  the  soldier  told 
me  they  could  not  fight  with  the  same  spirit  if  they  wore  any 
other  clothes  than  those  which  belong  to  the  glorious  tra- 
ditions of  France. 

When  I  was  taken  to  Colonel  Duchesne,  second-in-com- 


MOBILIZATION  37 

mand  to  General  Foch,  he  gave  me  a  smiling  greeting,  though 
I  was  a  trespasser  in  the  war  zone,  and  he  wanted  to  know 
what  I  thought  of  his  "  boys,"  what  was  my  opinion  of  the 
mobilization,  and  what  were  my  impressions  of  the  way  in 
which  France  had  responded  to  the  call.  I  answered  with 
sincerity,  and  when  I  spoke  of  the  astonishing  way  in  which 
all  classes  seemed  to  have  united  in  defense  of  the  nation, 
Colonel  Duchesne  had  a  sudden  mist  of  tears  in  his  eyes 
which  he  did  not  try  to  hide. 

"  It  is  sublime !  All  politics  have  been  banished.  We  are 
one  people,  with  one  ideal  and  one  purpose  —  La  France ! " 

Then  he  came  to  the  business  of  my  visit  —  to  obtain  a 
permit  to  march  with  the  French  troops. 

"  It  is  very  difficult,"  said  the  Colonel.  "  General  Foch 
would  do  all  he  could  for  you  —  he  loves  the  English  —  but 
no  French  correspondents  are  allowed  on  the  frontier,  and 
we  can  hardly  make  a  distinction  in  your  favor.  Still,  I 
will  put  your  appeal  before  the  General.  The  answer  shall 
be  sent  to  your  hotel." 

It  was  while  waiting  for  this  reply  that  I  was  able  to  ex- 
plore Nancy  and  to  see  the  scenes  of  mobilization.  The  town 
was  under  martial  law.  Its  food-supplies  were  under  strict 
supervision  by  the  commandant.  Every  motor-car  and  cart 
had  been  commandeered  for  the  use  of  the  army,  and  every 
able-bodied  citizen  had  been  called  to  the  colors.  I  was  the 
only  guest  in  the  Grand  Hotel  and  the  manager  and  his  wife 
attended  to  my  wants  themselves.  They  were  astounded  to 
see  me  in  the  town. 

"  You  are  the  only  foreigner  left,"  they  said,  "  except 
those  who  are  under  armed  guard,  waiting  to  be  taken  to  the 
Swiss  frontier.     Look !  there  go  the  last  of  them !  " 

Through  the  glass  windows  of  the  hotel  door  I  saw  about 
two  hundred  men  marching  away  from  the  square  surrounded 
by  soldiers  with  fixed  bayonets.  They  carried  bundles  and 
seemed  to  droop  under  the  burden  of  them  already.  But  I 
fancy  their  hearts  were  heaviest,  and  I  could  see  that  these 


'J /I  f;.^::  «  O) 


98  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

young  men  —  waiters  and  hairdressers  and  tradesmen  most 
of  Swiss  nationality  —  were  unwilling  victims  of  this  tragedy 
of  war  which  had  suddenly  thrust  them  out  of  their  business 
and  smashed  their  small  ambitions  and  booted  them  out  of  a 
country  which  had  given  them  a  friendly  welcome.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  fixed  bayonets  were  some  women  who  wept 
as  they  called  out  "  Adieu !  "  to  their  fair-haired  fellows. 
One  of  them  held  up  a  new-born  baby  between  the  guards  as 
she  ran  alongside,  so  that  its  little  wrinkled  face  touched  the 
cheek  of  a  young  man  who  had  a  look  of  agony  in  his  eyes. 

That  night  I  heard  the  shrill  notes  of  bugle  calls  and  going 
to  my  bedroom  window  listened  to  the  clatter  of  horses'  hoofs 
and  saw  the  dim  forms  of  cavalry  and  guns  going  through 
the  darkness  —  towards  the  enemy.  No  sound  of  firing 
rattled  my  window  panes.  It  still  seemed  very  quiet  —  over 
there  to  the  east.  Yet  before  the  dawn  came  a  German 
avalanche  of  men  and  guns  might  be  sweeping  across  the 
frontier,  and  if  I  stayed  a  day  or  two  in  the  open  town  of 
Nancy  I  might  see  the  spiked  helmets  of  the  enemy  glinting 
down  the  streets.  The  town  was  not  to  be  defended,  I  was 
told,  if  the  French  troops  had  to  fall  back  from  the  frontier 
to  the  fortresses  of  Belfort  and  Toul. 

A  woman's  voice  was  singing  outside  in  the  courtyard  when 
I  awakened  next  day.  How  strange  that  any  woman  should 
sing  in  an  undefended  town  confronted  by  such  a  peril.  But 
none  of  the  girls  about  the  streets  had  any  fear  in  their  eyes. 
German  frightfulness  had  not  yet  scared  them  with  its  name- 
less horrors. 

I  did  not  stay  in  Nancy.  It  was  only  the  French  War 
Office  in  Paris  who  could  give  permission  for  a  correspondent 
to  join  the  troops.  This  unfortified  town  has  never  echoed 
in  the  war  to  the  tramp  of  German  feet,  and  its  women's 
courage  has  not  been  dismayed  by  the  worst  horrors.  But 
since  those  days  of  August,  1914,  many  women's  faces  have 
blanched  at  the  sight  of  blood  —  streams  of  blood  sopping 
the  stretchers  in  which  the  wounded  have  been  carried  back 


MOBILIZATION  39 

from  the  frontier,  which  seemed  so  quiet  when  I  listened  at 
the  open  window.  Those  soldiers  I  talked  to  in  the  general 
headquarters  —  how  many  of  them  are  now  alive?  They 
were  the  men  who  fought  in  Alsace  and  Lorraine,  when  whole 
battalions  were  decimated  under  a  withering  shell-fire  beyond 
the  endurance  of  human  courage,  and  who  marched  forward 
to  victories,  and  backward  in  retreats,  and  forward  again  over 
the  dead  bodies  of  their  comrades  and  corrupting  heaps  of 
German  dead,  in  an  ebb  and  flow  of  warfare  which  made  the 
fields  and  the  woods  one  great  stench  of  horror,  from  which 
there  came  back  madmen  and  maimed  creatures,  and  young 
men,  lucky  with  slight  wounds,  who  told  the  tale  of  things 
they  had  seen  as  though  they  had  escaped  from  hell.  I  met 
some  of  them  afterwards  and  turned  sick  and  faint  as  I 
listened  to  their  stories;  and  afterwards  on  the  western  side 
of  the  French  front,  three  hundred  miles  from  Nancy,  I  came 
upon  the  dragoons  of  Belfort  who  had  ridden  past  me  in  the 
sunshine  of  those  August  days.  Then  they  had  been  very 
fine  to  see  in  their  clean  uniforms  and  on  their  glossy  horses, 
garlanded  with  flowers.  At  the  second  meeting  they  were 
stained  and  war-worn,  and  their  horses  limped  with  drooping 
heads,  and  they  rode  as  men  who  have  seen  many  comrades 
fall  and  have  been  familiar  with  the  ways  of  death.  They 
were  fine  to  see  again,  those  dirty,  tired,  grim-faced  men. 
But  it  was  a  different  kind  of  beauty  which  sent  a  queer  thrill 
through  me  as  I  watched  them  pass. 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  SECRET  WAR 

IT  was  the  most  astounding  thing  in  modern  history,  the 
secrecy  behind  which  great  armies  were  moving  and 
fighting.  To  a  civilization  accustomed  to  the  rapid 
and  detailed  accounts  of  news,  there  was  something  stupefy- 
ing in  the  veil  of  silence  which  enshrouded  the  operations  of 
the  legions  which  were  being  hurled  against  each  other  along 
the  frontiers.  By  one  swift  stroke  of  the  military  censorship 
journalism  was  throttled.  All  its  lines  of  communication 
were  cut,  suddenly,  as  when,  in  my  office,  I  spoke  from  Paris 
to  England,  and  found  myself  with  a  half-finished  sentence 
before  a  telephone  which  would  no  longer  "  march,"  as  they 
say  across  the  Channel.  Pains  and  penalties  were  threatened 
against  any  newspaper  which  should  dare  to  publish  a  word 
of  military  information  beyond  the  official  communiques 
issued  in  order  to  hide  the  truth.  Only  by  a  careful  study 
of  maps  from  day  to  day  and  a  microscopic  reading  between 
the  lines  could  one  grope  one's  way  to  any  kind  of  clear  fact 
which  would  reveal  something  more  than  the  vague  optimism, 
the  patriotic  fervor,  of  those  early  despatches  issued  from  the 
Ministry  of  War.  Now  and  again  a  name  would  creep  into 
these  communiques  which  after  a  glance  at  the  map  would 
give  one  a  cold  thrill  of  anxiety  and  doubt.  Was  it  possible 
that  the  enemy  had  reached  that  point?  If  so,  then  its 
progress  was  phenomenal  and  menacing.  But  M.  le  Marquis 
de  Messimy,  War  Minister  of  France,  was  delightfully  cheer- 
ful.    He  assured  the  nation  day  after  day  that  their  heroic 

army  was  making  rapid  progress.     He  omitted  to  say  in 

40 


THE     SECRET     WAR  41 

what  direction.  He  gave  no  details  of  these  continual  vic- 
tories. He  did  not  publish  lists  of  casualties.  It  seemed,  at 
first,  as  though  the  war  were  bloodless. 

One  picture  of  Paris,  in  those  first  days  of  August,  comes 
to  my  mind  now.  In  a  great  room  to  the  right  of  the  steps 
of  the  War  Office  a  number  of  men  in  civilian  clothes  sit  in 
gilded  chairs  with  a  strained  look  of  expectancy,  as  though 
awaiting  some  message  of  fate.  They  have  interesting  faces. 
My  fingers  itch  to  make  a  sketch  of  them,  but  only  Steinlen 
could  draw  these  Parisian  types  who  seem  to  belong  to  some 
literary  or  Bohemian  coterie.  What  can  they  be  doing  at  the 
Ministry  of  War?  They  smoke  cigarettes  incessantly,  talk  in 
whispers  tete-a-tcte,  or  stare  up  at  the  steel  casques  and 
cuirasses  on  the  walls,  or  at  the  great  glass  candelabra  above 
their  heads  as  though  they  can  only  keep  their  patience  in 
check  by  gazing  fixedly  at  some  immovable  object.  Among 
the  gilded  chairs  and  beneath  the  Empire  mirrors  which 
reflect  the  light  there  are  three  iron  bedsteads  with  straw 
mattresses,  and  now  and  again  a  man  gets  up  from  one  of 
these  straight-backed  chairs  and  lies  at  full  length  on  one  of 
the  beds.  But  a  minute  later  he  rises  silently  again  and 
listens  intently,  nervously,  to  the  sound  of  footsteps  coming 
sharply  across  the  polished  boards.  It  seems  to  be  the  com- 
ing of  the  messenger  for  whom  all  these  men  have  been  wait- 
ing. They  spring  to  their  feet  and  crowd  round  a  table  as 
a  gentleman  comes  in  with  a  bundle  of  papers  from  which  he 
gives  a  sheet  to  every  outstretched  hand.  The  Parisian 
journalists  have  received  the  latest  bulletin  of  war.  They 
read  it  silently,  devouring  with  their  eyes  those  few  lines  of 
typewritten  words.  Here  is  the  message  of  fate.  Those 
slips  of  paper  will  tell  them  whether  it  goes  well  or  ill  with 
France.     One  of  them  speaks  to  his  neighbor: 

"  Tout  va  bien !  " 

Yes,  all  goes  well,  according  to  the  official  bulletin,  but 
there  is  not  much  news  on  that  slip  of  paper,  not  enough  for 
men  greedy   for  every   scrap   of  news.     Perhaps   the   next 


4S  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

despatch  will  contain  a  longer  story.  They  must  come 
again,  these  journalists  of  France,  to  smoke  more  cigarettes, 
to  stare  at  the  steel  armor,  to  bridle  their  impatience  with 
clenched  hands.  This  little  scene  at  the  Ministry  of  War  is 
played  four  times  a  da}^,  and  there  is  a  tremendous  drama 
behind  the  quietude  of  those  waiting  men,  whose  duty  it  is 
to  tell  France  and  the  world  what  another  day  of  war  has 
done  for  the  flag. 

Another  little  scene  comes  to  my  mind  as  I  grope  back  to 
those  first  days  of  war.  At  the  Ministry  of  Foreign  Affairs, 
on  the  Quai  d'Orsay,  there  is  more  quietude.  It  is  difficult  to 
realize  that  this  house  has  been  the  scene  of  a  world-drama 
within  the  last  few  days,  and  that  in  one  of  its  reception- 
rooms  a  German  gentleman  'spoke  a  few  quiet  words,  before 
asking  for  some  papers,  which  hurled  millions  of  men  against 
each  other  in  a  deadly  struggle  involving  all  that  we  mean 
by  civilization.  I  went  to  that  house  and  waited  for  a  while 
in  an  ante-chamber  where  the  third  Napoleon  once  paced 
up  and  down  before  a  war  which  ended  disastrously  for 
France.  Presently  a  footman  came  through  the  velvet  cur- 
tains and  said,  "  Monsieur  le  President  vous  attend."  I  was 
taken  into  another  room,  a  little  cabinet  overlooking  a 
garden,  cool  and  green  under  old  trees  through  which  the 
sunlight  filtered.  A  stone  goddess  smiled  at  me  through  the 
open  windows.  I  saw  her  out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye  as  I 
bowed  to  M.  Doumergue,  Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs,  and, 
for  a  time.  Prime  Minister  of  France.  For  some  reason  my 
imagination  was  touched  by  that  garden  of  peace  where  a 
Greek  goddess  smiled  in  the  green  twilight. 

But  M.  Doumergue  was  smiling,  too,  with  that  expression 
of  "  tout  va  bien  "  which  masked  the  anxiety  of  every  states- 
man who  had  seen  behind  the  veil.  After  a  few  preliminary 
words  he  spoke  of  the  progress  of  the  war  and  of  its  signifi- 
cance to  the  world. 

"  Civilization  itself,"  he  said,  "  depends  upon  the  success 
of  our  arms.     For  years  Germany  has  played  the  part  of  a 


THE     SECRET     WAR  43 

bully,  basing  her  policy  upon  brute  force,  and  thrusting  her 
sword  before  the  eyes  of  men.  She  was  swollen-headed  with 
her  military  pride.  She  preached  the  gospel  of  the  swash- 
buckler. And  now,  after  the  declaration  of  this  war,  which 
was  none  of  our  seeking,  how  are  they  behaving,  these  Ger- 
mans? Like  barbarians.  They  have  treated  our  ambas- 
sador with  infamous  discourtesy.  They  have  behaved  with 
incredible  insolence  and  boorishness  to  our  consuls.  The 
barbaric  nature  of  the  enemy  is  revealed  in  a  way  which  will 
never  be  forgotten.  Fortunately,  we  have  European  civiliza- 
tion on  our  side.  All  the  cultured  races  sympathize  with  us. 
They  know  that  Europe  would  be  lost  if  the  Gernian  Empire, 
with  its  policy  of  blood  and  iron,  with  its  military  caste  and 
tyranny,  should  become  more  dominant  and  stride  across  the 
frontiers  of  civilized  states.  But  of  the  ultimate  issue  of 
this  war  there  can  be  no  doubt.  With  Great  Britain  fighting 
side  by  side  with  France,  with  Russia  attacking  on  the  east- 
em  front,  what  hopes  can  Germany  nourish  now?  The  war 
may  be  a  long  struggle ;  it  may  lead  to  many  desperate  bat- 
tles;  but  in  the  end  the  enemy  must  he  doomed.  Where  is 
her  boasted  organization?  Already  our  prisoners  tell  us 
that  they  were  starv^ing  when  they  fought.  It  seems  as 
though  these  critics  of  French  military  organization  were 
demoralized  at  the  outset.  lis  ont  bluff e  tout  le  temps!  I 
can  assure  you  that  we  are  full  of  confidence,  and  perfectly 
satisfied  with  the  way  in  which  the  war  is  progressing." 

This  Minister  of  France  was  "  perfectly  satisfied."  His 
optimism  cheered  me,  though  all  his  words  had  not  told  me 
the  things  I  wanted  to  know,  nor  lifted  the  corner  of  that 
veil  which  hid  the  smoke  and  flash  of  guns.  But  the  French 
had  taken  prisoners  and  somewhere  or  other  masses  of  men 
were  fighting  and  dying.  ...  As  I  came  back  from  the  Quai 
d'Orsay  and  a  stroll  in  the  Champs  Elysees  through  the 
golden  twilight  of  a  splendid  day,  when  the  lamps  of  Paris 
began  to  gleam  like  stars  through  the  shimmering  haze  and 
the  soft  foliage  of  the  most  beautiful  highway  in  the  world, 


44.  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

there  came  a  clatter  of  hoofs  and  the  music  of  soldiers'  har- 
ness. It  was  a  squadron  of  the  Garde  Republicaine  riding 
on  the  last  patrol  of  the  day  round  the  ramparts  of  Paris. 
I  watched  them  gallop  through  the  Arc  de  Triomphe,  their 
black  crinieres  streaming  backwards  like  smoke  from  their 
helmets.  They  rode  towards  the  setting  sun,  a  crimson  bar 
across  the  blue  of  the  sky,  and  when  I  walked  back  slowly  to 
the  heart  of  Paris  the  boulevards  were  already  quiet,  and 
in  the  velvety  darkness  which  overtook  me  there  was  peace 
and  order.  Only  the  silence  of  the  streets  told  me  that 
France  was  at  war. 

Obviously  it  was  hopeless  to  stay  in  Paris  waiting  for 
official  permission  to  follow  the  armies  as  a  correspondent 
and  to  penetrate  more  deeply  into  the  heart  of  that  mystery 
which  was  fogged  more  deeply  by  the  words  that  came  forth 
every  day  from  the  Ministry  of  War.  The  officials  were 
very  polite  and  took  great  trouble  to  soothe  the  excited  emo- 
tions of  would-be  war  correspondents.  "  In  a  faw  days, 
gentlemen,  if  all  continues  to  go  well."  They  desired  our 
photographs,  in  duplicate,  a  medical  certificate  of  health, 
recommendations  as  to  our  mental  and  moral  qualities,  for- 
mal applications  and  informal  interviews.  But  meanwhile 
the  war  was  being  fought  and  we  were  seeing  nothing. 

News  of  great  -s-ictory  came  to  Paris  when  the  bulletins 
announced  the  advance  of  French  troops  in  Alsace  and  the 
capture  of  Mulhouse  and  Altkirch.  Instantly  there  were 
joyous  scenes  in  the  streets.  Boulevards,  which  had  been 
strangely  quiet,  became  thronged  with  men  and  women  called 
out  from  the  twilight  of  their  rooms  by  this  burst  of  sun- 
light, as  it  seemed.  The  news  held  the  magic  thrill  of  an 
Alsace  restored  to  France.  ...  It  was  long  afterwards  that 
Paris  heard  strange  and  evil  rumors  of  reverses  down  there, 
of  a  regiment  which  flung  down  its  rifles  and  fled  under  a 
tempest  of  shells,  of  officers  shot  by  their  own  guns,  of  a  gen- 
eral cashiered  for  grievous  errors. 

From  Liege  there  came  more  news.     The  imagination  of 


THE     SECRET     WAR  46 

Paris,  deprived  of  all  sustenance  as  regards  its  own  troops, 
fed  greedily  upon  the  banquet  of  blood  which  had  been  given 
to  it  by  the  gallant  Belgians.  In  messages  coming  irregu- 
larly through  the  days  and  nights,  three  or  four  lines  at  a 
time,  it  was  possible  to  grasp  the  main  facts  of  that  heroic 
stand  against  the  German  legions.  We  were  able  to  perceive 
from  afar  the  raking  fire  of  the  forts  around  the  city,  which 
swept  the  ground  so  that  the  most  famous  regiments  of  the 
German  army  were  mowed  down  as  they  advanced  with  des- 
perate courage. 

"  If  Liege  holds  out  the  German  troops  are  in  a  hopeless 
position."  These  words  were  repeated  along  the  boulevards 
of  Paris,  and  because  Liege  held  out  so  long  the  spirit  of 
Paris  was  exalted. 

But,  as  a  journalist  out  to  see  things,  I  was  depressed. 
It  was  useless  to  wait  in  Paris  while  the  days  were  slipping 
by  and  history  was  being  made.  Official  permission  was  de- 
layed, by  fair  and  courteous  words.  I  decided  to  go  in 
search  of  the  war  without  permission  and  to  get  somehow  or 
other  behind  the  scenes  of  its  secrecy.  So  my  adventures 
began,  and  in  a  little  while  my  eyes  became  seared  with  the 
sight  of  tragedy  and  my  soul  filled  with  the  enormous  woe  of 
war. 

It  was  a  strange  kind  of  melodrama,  that  experience  in 
the  first  two  months  of  the  war.  Looking  back  upon  it  now, 
it  has  just  the  effect  of  a  prolonged  nightmare  stimulated 
by  hasheesh  or  bang  —  fantastic,  full  of  confused  dreams, 
changing  kaleidoscopically  from  one  scene  to  another,  with 
vivid  clear-cut  pictures,  intensely  imagined,  between  gulfs 
of  dim  twilight  memories,  full  of  shadow  figures,  faces  seen 
a  httle  while  and  then  lost,  conversations  begun  abruptly 
and  then  ended  raggedly,  poignant  emotions  lasting  for  brief 
moments  and  merging  into  others  as  strong  but  of  a  different 
quality,  gusts  of  laughter  rising  between  moods  of  horrible 
depression,  tears  sometimes  welling  from  the  heart  and  then 
choked  back  by  a  brutal  touch  of  farce,  beauty  and  ugliness 


46  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

in  sudden  clashing  contrasts,  the  sorrow  of  a  nation,  the  fear 
of  a  great  people,  the  misery  of  women  and  children,  the 
intolerable  anguish  of  multitudes  of  individuals  each  with 
a  separate  agony,  making  a  dark  background  to  this  too  real 
dream  from  which  there  was  no  awakening. 

I  was  always  traveling  during  those  eight  or  nine  weeks 
of  history  —  for  the  most  time  I  had  two  companions  with 
me  —  dear  fellows  whose  comradeship  was  a  fine  personal 
pleasure,  in  spite  of  all  the  pain  into  which  we  plunged. 
Together  we  journeyed  continually  and  prodigiously,  cover- 
ing thousands  of  miles  during  those  weeks,  in  all  sorts  of 
directions,  by  all  sorts  of  ways,  in  troop  trains  and  cattle 
trucks,  in  motor-cars  and  taxicabs,  and  on  Shank's  nag. 
There  were  no  couriers  in  those  days  between  France  and 
England,  and  to  get  our  despatches  home  we  often  had  to 
take  them  across  the  Channel,  using  most  desperate  endeavors 
to  reach  a  port  of  France  in  time  for  the  next  boat  home 
and  staying  in  Fleet  Street  only  a  few  hours  before  hurrying 
back  to  Dover  or  Folkestone  in  order  to  plunge  again  into 
the  fever  of  invaded  France.  Later  Paris  was  our  goal,  and 
we  would  struggle  back  to  it  along  lines  choked  with  muni- 
tions of  war  or  completely  held  for  the  transport  of  great 
masses  of  troops,  arriving,  at  night  as  a  rule,  weary  for  lack 
of  sleep,  dirty  from  the  filth  of  cattle  trucks  crowded  with 
unwashed  men  and  women,  hungry  after  meager  rations  of 
biscuits  and  cheese,  mentally  and  physically  exhausted,  so 
that  one  such  night  I  had  to  be  carried  upstairs  to  my  room, 
so  weak  that  I  could  not  drag  one  leg  after  the  other  nor 
lift  a  hand  from  the  coverlet.  On  another  day  one  of  my 
companions  —  the  Strategist  —  sat  back,  rather  quiet,  in  a 
taxicab  which  panted  in  a  wheezy  way  along  the  inter- 
minably straight  roads  of  France,  through  villages  from 
which  all  their  people  had  fled  under  the  shadow  of  a  great 
fear  which  followed  them,  until  when  the  worn-out  vehicle 
could  go  no  further,  but  halted  helplessly  on  a  lonely  high- 
way remote  as  it  seemed  from  any  habitation,  my  friend  con- 


THE     SECRET     WAR  47 

fesscd  that  he  was  weak  even  as  a  new-born  babe  and  could 
not  walk  a  hundred  yards  to  save  his  life.  Yet  he  is  a  strong 
man  who  had  never  been  in  a  doctor's  hands  since  childhood. 
His  weakness,  the  twist  of  pain  about  his  mouth,  the  weari- 
ness in  his  eyes,  scared  us  then.  The  Philosopher,  who  had 
not  yet  begun  to  feel  in  his  bones  the  heat  of  the  old  tropical 
fever  which  afterwards  made  him  toss  at  nights  and  call  out 
strange  words,  shook  his  head  and  spoke  with  the  enormous 
gravity  which  gives  an  air  of  prophecy  and  awful  wisdom 
to  a  man  whose  sense  of  humor  and  ironic  wit  have  often 
twisted  me  into  painful  knots  of  mirth.  But  there  was  no 
glint  of  humor  in  the  Philosopher's  eyes  when  he  stared  at 
the  grayness  of  the  Strategist. 

"  The  pace  has  been  too  hot,"  he  said.  "  We  seem  to 
forget  that  there's  a  limit  to  the  strain  we  can  put  on  the 
human  machine.  It's  not  only  the  physical  fatigue.  It's 
the  continual  output  of  nervous  energy.  All  this  misery, 
all  that  damn  thing  over  there," —  he  waved  his  paw  at  the 
darkening  hills  beyond  which  was  a  great  hostile  army  — 
"  the  sight  of  all  these  refugees  spilt  out  of  their  cities  and 
homes  as  though  a  great  hand  had  tipped  up  the  earth,  is 
beginning  to  toll  on  us,  my  lads.  We  are  spending  our  re- 
serve force,  and  we  are  just  about  whacked!  " 

Yet  we  went  on,  mixed  up  always  in  refugee  rushes,  in 
masses  of  troops  moving  forward  to  the  front  or  backwards 
in  retreat,  getting  brief  glimpses  of  the  real  happenings  be- 
hind the  screen  of  secrecy,  meeting  the  men  who  could  tell 
us  the  hidden  truth,  and  more  than  once  escaping,  by  the 
nick  of  time  only,  from  a  death-trap  into  which  we  had  tum- 
bled unwittingly,  not  knowing  the  whereabouts  of  the  enemy, 
nor  his  way  of  advance. 

In  the  early  days  of  the  war,  the  first  stampede  which 
overwhelmed  us  had  a  touch  of  comedy  unless  one's  imagina- 
tion were  shocked  by  the  panic  of  great  crowds,  in  which 
always  and  for  whatever  cause  there  is  something  degrading 
to  the  dignity  of  human  nature.     It  was  the  panic  rush  of 


48  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

the  world's  tourists  suddenly  trapped  by  war  in  the  pleasure 
haunts  of  Europe.  They  had  come  out  to  France,  Switzer- 
land, Italy,  and  Egj^pt  with  well-lined  purses,  for  the  most 
part,  and  with  the  absolute  conviction,  not  disturbed  by  any 
shadow  of  doubt,  that  their  ways  would  be  made  smooth  by 
Cook's  guides,  hotel  managers,  British  and  American  consuls, 
and  foreigners  of  all  classes  eager  to  bow  before  them,  to 
show  them  the  sights,  to  carry  their  baggage,  to  lick,  if  need 
be,  their  boots.  They  had  money,  they  belonged  to  the 
modern  aristocracy  of  the  well-to-do.  Was  not  Europe 
their  garden  of  pleasure,  providing  for  them,  in  return  for 
the  price  of  a  season  ticket,  old  monuments,  famous  pictures, 
sunsets  over  Swiss  mountains,  historic  buildings  starred  by 
Baedeker,  peculiar  customs  of  aborigines,  haunts  of  vice  to 
be  viewed  with  a  sense  of  virtue,  and  good  hotels  in  which 
there  was  a  tendency  to  over-eat? 

The  pleasure  of  these  rich  Americans  and  comfortable 
English  tourists  was  suddenly  destroyed  by  the  thunderbolt 
of  war.  They  were  startled  to  find  that  strong  laws  were 
hastily  enacted  against  them  and  put  in  force  with  extraordi- 
nary brutality.  Massed  under  the  name  of  Strangers  — 
they  had  always  looked  upon  the  natives  as  the  only  foreign- 
ers —  they  were  ordered  to  leave  certain  countries  and  cer- 
tain cities  within  twenty-four  hours,  otherwise  they  would 
be  interned  in  concentration  camps  under  armed  guards  for 
the  duration  of  the  war.  But  to  leave  these  countries  and 
cities  they  had  to  be  provided  with  a  passport  —  hardly  an 
American  among  them  had  such  a  document  —  and  with  a 
laisser-passer  to  be  obtained  from  the  police  and  counter- 
signed by  military  authorities,  after  strict  interrogation. 

The  comedy  began  on  the  first  day  of  mobilization,  and 
developed  into  real  tragedy  as  the  days  slipped  by.  For  al- 
though at  first  there  was  something  a  little  ludicrous  in  the 
plight  of  the  well-to-do,  brought  down  with  a  crash  to  the 
level  of  the  masses  and  loaded  with  paper  money  which  was  as 
worthless  as  Turkish  bonds,  so  that  the  millionaire  was  for 


THE     SECRET     WAR  49 

the  time  being  no  richer  than  the  beggar,  pity  stirred  in  one 
at  the  sight  of  real  suffering  and  anguish  of  mind. 

Outside  the  commissariats  de  police  in  Paris  and  pro- 
vincial towns  of  France,  like  Dijon  and  Lyons,  and  in  the 
ports  of  Calais,  Boulogne,  and  Dieppe,  there  were  great 
crowds  of  these  tourists  lined  up  in  queue  and  waiting  wearily 
through  the  hours  until  their  turn  should  come  to  be  meas- 
ured with  their  backs  to  the  wall  and  to  be  scrutinized  by 
police  officers,  sullen  after  a  prolonged  stream  of  entreaty 
and  expostulation,  for  the  color  of  their  eyes  and  hair,  the 
shape  of  their  noses  and  chins,  and  the  "  distinctive  marks  " 
of  their  physical  beauty  or  ugliness. 

"  I  guess  I'll  never  come  to  this  Europe  again ! "  said  an 
American  lady  who  had  been  waiting  for  five  hours  in  a  side 
street  in  Paris  for  this  ordeal.  "  It's  a  cruel  shame  to  treat 
American  citizens  as  though  they  were  thieves  and  rogues. 
I  wonder  the  President  of  the  United  States  don't  make  a 
protest  about  it.  Are  people  here  so  ignorant  they  don't 
even  know  the  name  of  Josiah  K.  Schultz,  of  Boston,  Massa- 
chusetts ?  " 

The  commissary's  clerk  inside  the  building  was  quite  un- 
moved by  the  name  of  Josiah  K.  Schultz,  of  Boston,  Massa- 
chusetts. It  held  no  magic  for  him,  and  he  seemed  to  think 
that  the  lady-wife  of  that  distinguished  man  might  be  a  Ger- 
man spy  with  American  papers.  He  kept  her  waiting,  de- 
liberately, though  she  had  waited  for  five  hours  in  the  street 
outside. 

The  railway  time-tables  ceased  to  have  a  meaning  after 
the  first  hour  of  mobilization.  Bradshaw  became  a  lie  and 
civil  passengers  were  only  allowed  on  the  rare  trains  which 
ran  without  notice  at  any  hour  of  the  day  or  night,  at  the 
discretion  of  military  officers,  according  to  the  temporary 
freedom  of  the  line  from  troop  trains  and  supply  trains. 
Those  tourist  crowds  suffered  intolerable  things,  which  I 
shared  with  them,  though  I  was  a  different  kind  of  traveler. 
I  remember  one  such  scene  at  Dijon,  typical  of  many  others. 


50  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

Because  only  one  train  was  starting  on  that  day  to  the  capi- 
tal, and  the  time  of  it  was  utterly  unknown  to  the  railway 
officials,  three  or  four  hundred  people  had  to  wait  hour  after 
hour,  for  half  a  night,  penned  up  in  a  waiting-room,  which 
became  foul  with  the  breath  and  heat  of  so  many  people. 
In  vain  did  they  appeal  to  be  let  out  on  to  the  platform  where 
there  would  be  more  air  and  space.  A  sentry  with  fixed 
bayonet  stood  with  his  back  to  them  and  barred  the  way. 
Old  ladies  sat  down  in  despair  on  their  baggage,  wedged  be- 
tween legs  straddled  across  their  bags.  A  delicate  woman 
near  me  swooned  in  the  stifling  atmosphere.  I  had  watched 
her  grow  whiter  and  whiter  and  heard  the  faintness  of  her 
sighs,  so  that  when  she  swayed  I  grasped  her  by  the  arm 
and  held  her  up  until  her  husband  relieved  me  of  her  weight. 
A  Frenchwoman  had  a  baby  at  her  breast.  It  cried  with  an 
unceasing  wail.  Other  babies  were  crying,  and  young  girls, 
with  sensitive  nerves,  were  exasperated  by  this  wailing  misery 
and  the  sickening  smell  which  pervaded  this  closed  room. 

When  the  train  came  in,  the  door  was  opened  and  there 
was  a  wild  rush  for  the  carriages,  without  the  English  watch- 
word of  "  women  and  children  first."  Thrust  on  one  side  by 
sharp  elbows,  I  and  my  two  friends  struggled  at  last  into  the 
corridor,  and  for  nineteen  hours  sat  there  on  the  sharp  edges 
of  our  upturned  trunks,  fixed  rigidl}'  between  the  bodies  of 
other  travelers.  To  the  left  of  us  was  a  French  peasant,  a 
big,  quiet  man,  with  a  bovine  gift  of  patience  and  utterly 
taciturn.  After  the  first  five  minutes  I  suspected  that  some- 
where concealed  about  his  person  was  a  ripe  cheese.  There 
was  a  real  terror  in  the  malodorous  vapors  which  exhaled 
from  him.  In  a  stealthy  way  they  crept  down  the  length  of 
the  corridor,  so  that  other  people,  far  away,  flung  open  win- 
dows and  thrust  out  heads,  in  spite  of  the  night  air  with  a 
bite  of  frost  in  it.  I  dozed  uneasily  with  horrid  dreams  as  I 
sat  on  three  inches  of  hard  box,  with  my  head  jogging  side- 
ways. Always  I  was  conscious  of  the  evil  smell  about  me, 
but  when  the  peasant  was  still  I  was  able  to  suffer  it,  because 


THE     SECRET    WAR  51 

of  sheer  weariness,  which  deadened  my  senses.  It  was  when 
he  moved,  disturbing  invisible  layers  of  air,  that  I  awakened 
horribly.  .  .  . 

For  the  nice  people  of  the  world  whom  fate  had  pampered, 
there  was  a  cruelty  in  this  mode  of  travel.  Hunger,  with  its 
sharp  tooth,  assailed  some  of  them  for  the  first  time.  We 
stopped  at  wayside  stations  —  still  more  often  between  the 
stations  —  but  American  millionaires  and  English  aristo- 
crats were  stupefied  to  find  that  not  all  their  money  could 
buy  a  sandwich.  Most  of  the  buffets  had  been  cleaned  out 
by  the  army  passing  to  the  front.  Thirst,  intolerable  and 
choking,  was  a  greater  pain  in  those  hot  dog-days  and  in 
those  tedious  interminable  journeys. 

Yet  it  is  only  fair  to  say  that  on  the  whole  those  tourists 
chased  across  the  continent  by  the  advancing  specter  of  war, 
behaved  with  pluck  and  patience.  Some  of  them  had  suffered 
grievous  loss.  From  Bale  and  Geneva  to  Paris  and  Boulogne 
the  railways  were  littered  with  their  abandoned  luggage,  too 
bulky  to  be  loaded  into  overcrowded  trains.  On  the  roads 
of  France  were  brokendown  motor-cars  which  had  cost  large 
sums  of  money  in  New  York  and  London.  But  because  war's 
stupendous  evil  makes  all  other  things  seem  trivial,  and  the 
gifts  of  liberty  and  life  are  more  precious  than  wealth  or 
luxury,  so  these  rich  folk  in  misfortune  fraternized  cheer- 
fully in  the  discussion  of  their  strange  adventures  and  shared 
the  last  drop  of  hot  tea  in  a  Thermos  flask  with  the  generous 
instincts  of  shipwrecked  people  dividing  their  rations  on  a 
desert  isle. 

This  flight  of  the  pleasure-seekers  was  the  first  revelation 
of  the  way  in  which  war  would  hurt  the  non-combatant  and 
sacrifice  his  business  or  his  comfort  to  its  supreme  purpose. 
Fame  was  merely  foolishness  when  caught  in  the  trap  of 
martial  law.  I  saw  a  man  of  European  reputation  flourish 
his  card  before  railway  officials,  to  be  thrust  back  by  the 
butt  end  of  a  rifle.  No  money  could  buy  a  seat  in  a  railway 
carriage  already  crowded  to  suffocation.     No  threat  to  write 


52  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

a  letter  to  the  Times  would  avail  an  old-fashioned  English- 
man when  his  train  was  shunted  for  hours  on  to  a  side  line  to 
make  way  for  troop  trains,  passing,  passing,  through  the 
day  and  night.  Nations  were  at  war,  and  whatever  stood  in 
the  way  of  the  war's  machine  would  be  trampled  underfoot 
or  thrust  on  one  side  with  brutal  indifference.  Their  fame 
did  not  matter  nor  their  struggles  to  escape  from  a  closing 
net.  Neither  the  beauty  of  women  nor  the  weakness  of 
children  nor  the  importance  of  the  world's  great  somebodies 
mattered  a  jot.  Nothing  mattered  except  fighting-men,  and 
guns,  and  food  for  guns  and  men. 

The  French  soldiers  who  were  being  sent  towards  the  un- 
known front  —  not  knowing  their  own  destination  and  for- 
bidden to  ask  —  had  recovered  from  the  shock  of  the  sudden 
call  to  the  colors  and  the  tragedy  of  their  hurried  partings 
from  wives,  and  sweethearts,  and  old  mothers,  who  are  always 
dearest  to  Frenchmen's  hearts.  The  thrill  of  a  nation's  ex- 
citement brought  a  sparkle  to  their  eyes  and  a  flush  to  their 
cheeks.  The  inherent  gaiety  of  the  French  race  rose  tri- 
umphant above  the  gloom  and  doubt  which  had  preceded  the 
declaration  of  war.  Would  they  never  tire  of  singing  the 
Marseillaise?  Would  all  this  laughter  which  came  in  gusts 
through  the  open  doors  of  cattle  trucks  and  the  windows  of 
third-class  carriages  change  into  the  moan  of  the  wounded 
at  their  journey's  end?  It  was  hard  to  look  forward  to  that 
inevitable  fate  as  I  watched  them  pass.  They  had  tied 
flowers  to  the  handles  of  their  trains  and  twisted  garlands 
round  the  bars.  There  were  posies  in  their  kepis,  and  bou- 
quets were  pinned  by  the  plump  hands  of  peasant  girls  to  the 
jackets  of  the  soldiers  of  the  line,  gunners,  cuirassiers, 
dragoons,  and  fusiliers  marins.  Between  the  chorus  of  the 
Marseillaise  came  snatches  of  songs  learned  in  the  cabarets 
of  Montmartre  and  the  cafes  chantants  of  provincial  towns. 
They  swarmed  like  bees  —  in  blue  coats  and  red  trousers  — 
upon  those  enormous  troop  trains  which  passed  through 
Gournai  and  Pontoise,  Rouen  and  Amiens.     Rows  of  them, 


THE     SECRET    WAR  53 

grinning  idown  under  peaks  at  freakish  angles,  dangled  their 
legs  over  as  they  squatted  on  the  roofs  of  the  wooden  trucks. 
They  hung  on  to  the  iron  ladders  of  the  guards'  vans.  Some- 
times six  of  them  would  be  installed  on  the  ledge  behind  the 
funnel  of  the  engine,  with  their  russet  faces  to  the  wind.  In 
the  argot  of  Paris  slums,  or  in  the  dialects  of  seaport  towns, 
they  hurled  chaff  at  comrades  waiting  on  the  platforms  with 
stacked  arms,  and  made  outrageous  love  to  girls  who  ran  by 
the  side  of  their  trains  with  laughing  eyes  and  saucy  tongues 
and  a  last  farewell  of  "  Bonne  chance,  mes  petits !  Bonne 
chance  et  tou jours  la  victoire!"  At  every  wayside  halt 
artists  were  at  work  with  white  chalk  drawing  grotesque  faces 
on  the  carriage  doors  below  which  they  scrawled  inscriptions 
referring  to  the  death  of  "  William,"  and  banquets  in  Berlin, 
and  invitations  for  free  trips  to  the  Rhine.  In  exchange  for 
a  few  English  cigarettes,  too  few  for  such  trainloads,  they 
gave  me  ovations  of  enthusiasm,  as  though  I  stood  for  Eng- 
land. 

"  Vive  I'Angleterre !  Vos  soldats,  ou  sont  ils,  camarade?  " 
Where  were  the  English  soldiers.'*  It  was  always  that 
question  which  sprang  to  their  lips.  But  for  a  little  while  I 
could  not  answer.  It  was  strange.  There  was  no  news  of 
the  crossing  of  the  Expeditionary  Force  to  France.  In  the 
French  and  English  newspapers  no  word  was  said  about  any 
British  soldiers  on  French  soil.  Was  there  some  unaccount- 
able delay,  or  were  we  fulfilling  our  bond  privately,  a  great 
drama  being  played  behind  the  scenes,  like  the  secret  war.''  ' 

Then  just  for  a  moment  the  veil  was  lifted  and  Lord 
Kitchener  allowed  the  British  people  to  know  that  their  sol- 
diers had  landed  on  the  other  side.  Even  then  we  who  knew 
more  than  that  were  not  allowed  to  mention  the  places  to 
which  they  had  gone.  Never  mind.  They  were  here.  We 
heard  quite  suddenly  the  familiar  accents  of  English  Tom- 
mies in  provincial  towns  of  France,  and  came  unexpectedly 
upon  khaki-clad  battalions  marching  and  singing  along  the 
country  roads.     For  the  first  time  there  rang  out  in  France 


54  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

the  foolish  ballad  which  has  become  by  a  queer  freak  the  war 
song  of  the  British  Army:  *'  It's  a  long  way  to  Tipperary," 
learned  with  comical  accent  by  French  peasants  and  French 
girls,  who,  in  those  early  days,  in  the  first  fine  thrill  of  en- 
thusiasm, sang  it  emotionally  as  though  it  were  a  hymn, 
holding  all  their  love  for  England,  all  their  hope  of  Eng- 
land's help,  all  their  admiration  of  these  clean-shaven  boys 
going  to  war  in  France  in  a  sporting  spirit  as  though  it  were 
a  great  game.  I  went  back  to  Paris  for  a  day  when  General 
French  arrived,  and  even  now  in  remembrance  I  hear  those 
shouts  of  "  Vive  I'Angleterre !  "  which  followed  the  motor-car 
in  which  our  General  made  his  triumphant  progress.  The 
shopgirls  of  Paris  threw  flowers  from  the  windows  as  the  car 
passed.  Dense  crowds  of  citizens  thronged  the  narrow  street 
of  the  Faubourg  St.  Honore,  and  waited  patiently  for  hours 
outside  the  Embassy  to  catch  one  glimpse  of  the  strong, 
stem,  thoughtful  face  of  the  man  who  had  come  with  his 
legions  to  assist  France  in  the  great  hour  of  need.  They 
talked  to  each  other  about  the  inflexibility  of  his  character, 
about  the  massive  jaw  which,  they  said,  would  bite  off  Ger- 
many's head.  They  cheered  in  the  English  manner,  with  a 
"  Hecp !  hcep  !  hooray !  " —  when  they  caught  sight  for  the 
first  time  of  the  khaki  uniforms  of  English  officers  on  the 
steps  of  the  Ministry  of  War.  The  arrival  of  English 
troops  here  was  red  wine  to  the  hearts  of  the  French  people. 
It  seemed  to  them  the  great  guarantee  of  victory.  "  With 
England  marching  side  by  side  with  us,"  they  said,  "  we  shall 
soon  be  in  Berlin !  " 

A  trainload  of  Royal  Engineers  came  into  one  of  the 
stations  where  I  happened  to  be  waiting  (my  memory  of 
those  days  is  filled  with  weary  hours  on  station  platforms). 
It  was  the  first  time  I  was  able  to  talk  to  British  Tommies  in 
France,  and  to  shake  their  hands,  and  to  shout  out  "  Good 
luck !  "  to  them.  It  was  curious  how  strong  my  emotion  was 
at  seeing  those  laughing  fellows  and  hearing  the  cockney 
accent  of  their  tongues.     They  looked  so  fine  and  clean. 


THE     SECRET     WAR  55 

Some  of  them  were  making  their  toilet  in  the  cattle  trucks, 
brushing  their  hair  as  though  for  a  picnic  party,  shaving 
before  little  mirrors  tacked  up  on  the  planks.  Others, 
crowding  at  the  open  doorways  of  the  trucks,  shouted  with 
laughter  at  the  French  soldiers  and  peasants,  who  grabbed 
at  their  hands  and  jabbered  enthusiastic  words  of  welcome. 

"  Funny  lingo,  Bill !  "  said  one  of  the  men.  "  Can't  make 
out  a  bit  of  it.     But  they  mean  well,  I  guess !  " 

It  was  impossible  to  doubt  that  they  meant  well,  these 
soldiers  of  France  greeting  their  comrades  of  England.  One 
man  behaved  like  a  buffoon,  or  as  though  he  had  lost  his  wits. 
Grasping  the  hand  of  a  young  engineer  he  danced  round  him, 
shouting  "Camarade!  camarade ! "  in  a  joyous  sing-song 
which  was  ridiculous,  and  yet  touching  in  its  simplicity  and 
faith.  It  was  no  wonder,  I  thought,  that  the  French  people 
believed  in  victory  now  that  the  British  had  come.  A  jingo 
pride  took  possession  of  me.  These  Tommies  of  ours  were 
the  finest  soldiers  in  the  world !  They  went  to  war  with  glad 
hearts.  They  didn't  care  a  damn  for  old  Von  Kluck  and  all 
his  hordes.  They  would  fight  like  heroes,  these  clean-limbed 
chaps,  who  looked  upon  war  as  a  great  game.  Further  along 
the  train  my  two  friends,  the  Philosopher  and  the  Strategist, 
were  in  deep  conversation  with  different  groups.  I  heard 
gusts  of  laughter  from  the  truckload  of  men  looking  down 
on  the  Philosopher.  He  had  discovered  a  man  from  Wap- 
ping,  I  think,  and  was  talking  in  the  accent  of  Stratford- 
atte-Bow  to  boj's  from  that  familiar  district  of  his  youth. 
The  Strategist  had  met  the  engineers  in  many  camps  in  Eng- 
land. They  were  surprised  at  his  knowledge  of  their  busi- 
ness. And  what  were  we  doing  out  here.'*  Newspaper  cor- 
respondents? Ah,  there  would  be  things  to  write  about! 
When  the  train  passed  out,  with  waving  hands  from  every 
carriage,  with  laughing  faces  caught  already  by  the  sun  of 
France,  with  farewell  shouts  of  "  Good  luck,  boys ! "  and 
"  Bonne  chance,  camarades !  "  three  Englishmen  turned  away 
silently  and  could  not  speak  for  a  minute  or  two.     Why  did 


56  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

the  Philosopher  blink  his  eyes  in  such  a  funny  way,  as  though 
they  smarted  at  specks  of  dust?  And  why  did  the  Strategist 
look  so  grave  all  of  a  sudden,  as  he  stood  staring  after  the 
train,  with  his  cap  in  his  hand,  so  that  the  sunlight  gleamed 
on  his  silver-gray  hair? 

So  the  British  army  had  come  to  France,  and  a  strange 
chapter  was  being  written  in  the  history  of  the  world,  con- 
trasting amazingly  with  former  chronicles.  English  bat- 
talions bivouacked  by  old  French  houses  which  had  looked 
down  upon  scenes  of  revolution  in  1789,  and  in  the  shadow 
of  its  churches  which  rang  for  French  victories  or  tolled  for 
French  defeats  when  Napoleon's  generals  were  fighting  Eng- 
lish regiments  exactly  one  hundred  years  ago.  In  seaport 
villages  and  towns  which  smell  of  tar  and  nets  and  absinthe 
and  stale  wine  I  saw  horses  stabled  in  every  inn-yard ;  streets 
were  littered  with  straw,  and  English  soldiers  sauntered 
about  within  certain  strict  boundaries,  studying  picture  post- 
cards and  giving  the  "  glad  eye  "  to  any  little  French  girl 
who  peeped  at  them  through  barred  windows.  Only  officers 
of  high  rank  knew  where  they  were  bound.  The  men,  devoid 
of  all  curiosity,  were  satisfied  with  the  general  knowledge 
that  they  were  "  on  the  continong,"  and  well  on  the  way  to 
*'  have  a  smack  at  the  Germans."  There  was  the  rattle  and 
rumble  of  English  guns  down  country  highways.  Long  lines 
of  khaki-clad  men,  like  a  writhing  brown  snake  when  seen 
from  afar,  moved  slowly  along  winding  roads,  through  corn- 
fields where  the  harvest  was  cut  and  stacked,  or  down  long 
avenues  of  poplars,  interminably  straight,  or  through  quaint 
old  towns  and  villages  with  whitewashed  houses  and  over- 
hanging gables,  and  high  stone  steps  leading  to  barns  and 
dormer-chambers.  Some  of  those  little  provincial  towns  have 
hardly  changed  since  D'Artagnan  and  his  Musketeers  rode  on 
their  way  to  great  adventures  in  the  days  of  Richelieu  and 
Mazarin.  And  the  spirit  of  D'Artagnan  was  still  bred  in 
them,  in  the  France  of  Poincare,  for  they  are  the  dwelling- 
places  of  young  men  in  the  cuirassiers  and  the  chasseurs  who 


THE     SECRET     WAR  57 

had  been  chasing  Uhlans  through  the  passes  of  the  Vosges, 
capturing  outposts  even  though  the  odds  were  seven  to  one. 

The  English  officers  and  men  will  never  have  to  complain 
of  their  welcome  in  France.  It  was  overwhelming  —  even  a 
little  intoxicating  to  young  soldiers.  As  they  marched 
through  the  towns  peasant  girls  ran  along  the  ranks  with 
great  bouquets  of  wild  flowers,  which  they  thrust  into  the 
soldiers'  arms.  In  every  market  square  where  the  regiments 
halted  for  a  rest  there  was  free  wine  for  any  thirsty  throat, 
and  soldier  boys  from  Scotland  or  England  had  their  brown 
hands  kissed  by  girls  who  were  eager  for  hero  worship  and 
had  fallen  in  love  with  these  clean-shaven  lads  and  their  smil- 
ing gray  eyes.  In  those  early  days  there  seemed  no  evil  in 
the  w'orship  of  the  w^omen  nor  in  the  hearts  of  the  men  who 
marched  to  the  song  of  "  Tipperary."  Every  man  in  khaki 
could  claim  a  hero's  homage  for  himself  on  any  road  in 
France,  at  any  street  corner  of  an  old  French  town.  It  was 
some  time  before  the  romance  wore  off,  and  the  realities  of 
human  nature,  where  good  is  mixed  with  evil  and  blackguard- 
ism marches  in  the  same  regiment  with  clean-hearted  men, 
destroyed  some  of  the  illusions  of  the  French  and  demanded 
an  iron  discipline  from  military  police  and  made  poor  peasant 
girls  repent  of  their  abandonment  in  the  first  ecstasy  of  their 
joyous  welcome. 

Nor  yet  did  the  brutalities  of  the  war  spoil  the  picture 
painted  in  khaki  tones  upon  the  green  background  of  the 
French  countryside.  From  my  notebook  I  transcribe  one  of 
the  word  pictures  which  I  wrote  at  the  time.  It  is  touched 
with  the  emotion  of  those  days,  and  is  true  to  the  facts  which 
followed : 

*'  The  weather  has  been  magnificent.  It  has  been  no  hard- 
ship to  sleep  out  in  the  roads  and  fields  at  night.  A  harvest 
moon  floods  the  country  with  silver  light  and  glints  upon 
the  stacked  bayonets  of  this  British  army  in  France  when 
the  men  lie  down  beneath  their  coats,  with  their  haversacks 
as  pillows.     Each  sleeping  figure  is  touched  softly  by  those 


53  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

silver  ra3-s  while  the  sentries  pace  up  and  do\\Ti  upon  the 
outskirts  of  the  camp.  Some  of  the  days  have  been  intensely 
hot,  but  the  British  Tommy  unfastens  his  coat  and  leaves 
his  shirt  open  at  the  chest,  and  with  the  sun  bronzing  his 
face  to  a  deeper,  richer  tint,  marches  on,  singing  a  cockney 
ballad  as  though  he  were  on  the  road  to  Weybridge  or 
Woking.  They  are  young  fellows,  many  of  them  —  beard- 
less boys  who  have  not  yet  been  hard-bitten  by  a  long  cam- 
paign and  have  not  received  their  baptism  of  fire.  Before 
they  have  been  many  days  in  the  fields  of  France  they  will 
not  look  so  fresh  and  smart.  Those  gray  eyes  of  theirs  will 
be  haunted  by  the  memory  of  battlefields  at  night,  when  the 
stretcher-bearers  are  searching  for  the  wounded  who  lie 
among  the  dead.  Not  yet  do  these  boys  know  the  real  mean- 
ing of  war.  But  they  belong  to  the  same  breed  of  men  who 
a  hundred  years  ago  fought  with  Wellington  in  the  Peninsula. 
There  is  no  possible  need  to  doubt  that  they  will  maintain  the 
old  traditions  of  their  regiments  and  add  new  records  to  their 
colors.  Before  this  war  is  finished  these  soldiers  of  ours, 
who  are  singing  on  their  way,  in  dapper  suits  of  khaki,  will 
be  all  tattered  and  torn,  with  straw  tied  round  their  feet, 
with  stubby  beards  on  their  chins,  with  the  grime  of  gun- 
powder and  dust  and  grease  and  mud  and  blood  upon  their 
hands  and  faces.  They  will  have  lost  the  freshness  of  their 
youth :  but  those  who  remain  will  have  gained  —  can  we 
doubt  it.''  —  the  reward  of  stubborn  courage  and  unfailing 
valor." 

Not  many  days  after  these  words  were  written,  I  came 
upon  a  scene  which  fulfilled  them,  too  quickly.  At  a  French 
junction  there  was  a  shout  of  command  in  English,  and  I 
saw  a  body  of  men  in  khaki,  with  Red  Cross  armlets,  run 
across  a  platform  to  an  incoming  train  from  the  north,  with 
stretchers  and  drinking  bottles.  A  party  of  English  soldiers 
had  arrived  from  a  battle  at  a  place  called  Mons.  With 
French  passengers  from  another  train,  I  was  kept  back  by 
soldiers  with  fixed  bayonets,  but  through  the  hedge  of  steel 


THE     SECRET     WAR  59 

I  saw  a  number  of  "  Tommies  "  with  bandaged  heads  and 
limbs  descending  from  the  troop  train.  Some  of  them  hung 
limp  between  their  nurses.  Their  faces,  so  fresh  when  I  had 
first  seen  them  on  the  way  out,  had  become  gray  and  muddy, 
and  were  streaked  with  blood.  Their  khaki  uniforms  were 
torn  and  cut.  One  poor  boy  moaned  pitiably  as  they  car- 
ried him  away  on  a  stretcher.  They  were  the  first  fruits  of 
this  unnatural  harvesting,  lopped  and  maimed  by  a  cruel 
reaper.  I  stared  at  them  with  a  kind  of  sickness,  more 
agonized  than  afterwards  when  I  saw  more  frightful  things. 
It  came  as  a  queer,  silly  shock  to  me  then  to  realize  that  in 
this  secret  war  for  which  I  was  searching  men  were  really 
being  smashed  and  killed,  and  that  out  of  the  mystery  of  it, 
out  of  the  distant  terror  from  which  great  multitudes  were 
fleeing,  out  of  the  black  shadow  creeping  across  the  sunlit 
hills  of  France,  where  the  enemy,  whom  no  fugitives  had 
seen,  was  advancing  like  a  moving  tide,  there  should  come 
these  English  boys,  crippled  and  broken,  from  an  unknown 
battle.  I  was  able  to  speak  to  one  of  them,  wounded  only 
in  the  hand,  but  there  was  no  time  for  more  than  a  question 
or  two  and  an  answer  which  hardly  gave  me  definite  knowl- 
edge. 

"  We  got  it  in  the  neck ! "  said  the  sergeant  of  the  R.F.A. 

He  repeated  the  words  as  if  they  held  all  truth. 

"  We  got  it  in  the  neck !  " 

"Where?"  I  asked. 

He  waved  his  wounded  hand  northwards,  and  said: 
"  Mons." 

"  Do  you  mean  we  were  beaten  ?     In  retreat  ?  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

**  We  gave  'em  what  for.  Oh,  yes,  they  had  to  pay  right 
enough.  But  they  were  too  much  for  us.  Came  on  like  lice 
.  .  .  swarming.  .  .  .  Couldn't  kill  enough.  .  .  .  Then  we 
got  it  in  the  neck.  .  .  .  Lost  a  good  few  men.  .  .  .  Gord, 
I've  never  seen  such  work!  South  Africa.^  No  more  than 
child's  play  to  this  'ere  game ! " 


60  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

He  gave  a  queer  kind  of  grin,  with  no  mirth  in  his  eyes, 
and  went  away  with  the  other  wounded  men. 

Mons?  It  was  the  first  I  had  heard  of  a  battle  there. 
And  our  men  were  having  a  hard  time.  The  enemy  were  too 
much  for  us.     Was  it  a  retreat.?     Perhaps  a  rout.'' 

The  Philosopher  answered  these  unspoken  questions. 

"  You  always  get  the  gloomy  view  from  wounded  men.  I 
dare  say  it's  not  an  easy  thing  to  stop  those  blighters,  but 
I've  faith  in  the  justice  of  God.  The  Great  Power  ain't 
going  to  let  Prussian  militarism  win  out.  It's  going  to  be 
smashed  because  of  its  essential  rottenness.  It's  all  right, 
laddie ! " 

The  Strategist  was  studying  his  map,  and  working  out 
military  possibilities. 

"  Mons.  I  expect  our  next  line  of  defense  will  be  Le 
Cateau  and  Cambrai.  If  we're  hard  pressed  we  shall  hear 
something  about  St.  Quentin,  too.  It's  quite  on  the  cards 
we  shall  have  to  fall  back,  but  I  hope  to  Heaven  in  good 
order  and  with  sound  lines  of  communication." 

"  It's  frightful !  "  I  said.  "  We  are  seeing  nothing  of 
all  this.     Nothing !  ...  If  only  we  could  get  near  it !  " 

It  was  some  time  before  we  heard  the  guns,  but  not  long 
before  we  saw  the  effects  of  war,  in  blood,  anguish,  and  tears. 

The  French  newspapers,  telling  little  of  the  truth,  giving 
barely  one  single  fact  to  a  page  full  of  heroic  sentiment,  had 
not  let  us  guess  that,  beyond  the  frontiers  of  France,  the 
enemy  was  doing  frightful  damage,  with  a  rapidity  and 
ruthlessness  which,  after  the  check  at  Liege,  was  a  tre- 
mendous menace  to  the  Allied  armies.  I  understood  these 
things  better,  in  a  stark  nakedness  of  truth,  when  I  found 
myself  caught  in  the  tumult  of  a  nation  in  flight. 

I  have  already  touched  upon  one  tide  of  panic  —  the 
stampede  of  the  pleasure-seekers.  That  was  a  mere  jest, 
lacking  all  but  the  touch  of  cruelty  which  gives  a  spice  to 
so  many  of  life's  witticisms ;  but  the  second  tide,  overflowing 
in  wave  after  wave  of  human  misery,  reached  great  heights 


THESECRETWAR  61 

of  tragedy  which  submerged  all  common  griefs.  From  that 
day  in  August  until  many  months  of  war  had  passed  I  was 
seldom  out  of  sight  of  this  ruin  of  Belgium.  I  went  into  the 
heart  of  it,  into  the  welter  of  blood  and  wreckage,  and  stood, 
expecting  death,  in  the  very  process  of  its  deadly  torture. 
Week  after  week,  month  after  month,  I  walked  and  talked 
with  Belgian  fugitives,  and  drifted  in  that  stream  of  exiled 
people,  and  watched  them  in  the  far  places  of  their  flight, 
where  they  were  encamped  in  settled  hopelessness,  asking 
nothing  of  the  fate  which  had  dealt  them  such  foul  blows, 
expecting  nothing.  But  I  still  remember  my  first  impres- 
sions of  war's  cruelty  to  that  simple  people  who  had  desired 
to  live  in  peace  and  had  no  quarrel  with  any  power.  It  was 
in  a  kind  of  stupor  that  I  saw  the  vanguard  of  this  nation 
in  retreat,  a  legion  of  poor  old  women  whose  white  hairs 
were  wild  in  this  whirl  of  human  derelicts,  whose  decent  black 
clothes  were  rumpled  and  torn  and  fouled  in  the  struggle  for 
life;  with  Flemish  mothers  clasping  babies  at  their  breasts 
and  fierce-eyed  as  wild  animals  because  of  the  terror  in  their 
hearts  for  those  tiny  buds  of  life;  with  small  children  scared 
out  of  the  divine  security  of  childhood  by  this  abandonment 
of  homes  which  had  seemed  the  world  to  them,  and  terrorized 
by  an  unknown  horror  which  lurked  in  the  name  of  Germany ; 
with  men  of  all  classes  and  all  ages,  intellectuals  and  peas- 
ants, stout  bourgeois,  whose  overload  of  flesh  was  a  burden 
to  their  flight,  thin  students  whose  book-tired  eyes  were  filled 
with  a  dazed  bewilderment,  men  of  former  wealth  and  dignity 
reduced  to  beggary  and  humiliation ;  with  schoolgirls  whose 
innocence  of  life's  realities  was  suddenly  thrust  face  to  face 
with  things  ugly  and  obscene,  and  cruel  as  hell. 

I  think  it  is  impossible  to  convey  to  those  who  did  not  see 
this  exodus  of  the  Belgian  people  the  meaning  and  misery  of 
it.  Even  in  the  midst  of  it  I  had  a  strange  idea  at  first  that 
it  was  only  a  fantasy  and  that  such  things  do  not  happen. 
Afterwards  I  became  so  used  to  it  all  that  I  came  to  think 
the  world  must  always  have  been  like  this,  with  people  always 


m  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

in  flight,  families  and  crowds  of  families  drifting  about  aim- 
lessly, from  town  to  town,  getting  into  trains  just  because 
they  started  somewhere  for  somewhere  else,  sitting  for  hours 
on  bundles  which  contained  all  their  worldly  goods  saved 
from  the  wreckage  of  ancient  homes,  losing  their  children  on 
the  roadside,  and  not  fretting  very  much,  and  finding  other 
children,  whom  they  adopted  as  their  own ;  never  washing  on 
that  wandering,  so  that  delicate  women  who  had  once  been 
perfumed  with  fine  scents  were  dirty  as  gipsies  and  un- 
ashamed of  draggled  dresses  and  dirty  hands ;  eating  when 
they  found  a  meal  of  charity,  sleeping  in  railway  sidings, 
coalsheds,  and  derelict  trains  shunted  on  to  grass-covered 
lines ;  careless  as  pariah  dogs  of  what  the  future  held  in  store 
now  that  they  had  lost  all  things  in  the  past. 

On  the  railway  sidings  near  Calais  there  was  one  sight  that 
revealed  the  defeat  of  a  nation  more  even  than  these  crowds 
of  refugees.  Hundreds  of  Belgian  engines  had  been  rushed 
over  the  frontier  to  France  to  escape  from  being  used  in  the 
enemy's  service.  These  derelict  things  stood  there  in  long 
rows  with  a  dismal  look  of  lifelessness  and  abandonment,  and 
as  I  looked  at  them  I  knew  that  though  the  remnants  of  the 
Belgian  army  might  be  fighting  in  its  last  ditch  and  holding 
out  at  Antwerp  against  the  siege  guns  of  the  Germans,  there 
could  be  no  hope  of  prolonged  resistance  against  overwhelm- 
ing armies.  These  engines,  which  should  have  been  used  for 
Belgian  transport,  for  men  and  food  and  guns,  were  out  of 
action,  and  dead  symbols  of  a  nation's  ruin. 

For  the  first  time  I  saw  Belgian  soldiers  in  France,  and 
although  they  were  in  small  number  compared  with  the  great 
army  of  retreat  which,  after  the  fall  of  Antwerp,  I  saw 
marching  into  Dunkirk,  their  weariness  and  listlessness  told 
a  tale  of  woe.  At  first  sight  there  was  something  comical  in 
the  aspect  of  these  top-hatted  soldiers.  They  remineded  me 
of  battalions  of  London  cabbies  who  had  ravaged  the  dust- 
bins for  discarded  "  toppers."  Their  double-breasted  coats 
had  just  the  cut  of  those  of  the  ancient  jehus  who  used  to 


THE     SECRET     WAR  63 

sit  aloft  on  decrepit  "  growlers."  Other  bodies  of  Belgian 
soldiers  wore  ludicrous  little  kepis  with  immense  eje-shades, 
mostly  broken  or  hanging  limp  in  a  dejected  way.  In  times 
of  peace  I  should  have  laughed  at  the  look  of  them.  But 
now  there  was  nothing  humorous  about  these  haggard,  dirty 
men  from  Ghent  who  had  borne  the  first  shock  of  the  German 
attack.  They  seemed  stupefied  for  lack  of  sleep,  or  dazed 
after  the  noise  of  battle.  I  asked  some  of  them  where  they 
were  going,  but  they  shook  their  heads  and  answered 
gloomily : 

"  We  don't  know.  We  know  nothing,  except  that  our 
Belgium  is  destroyed.     What  is  the  news.'*  " 

There  was  no  news  —  beyond  what  one  could  glean  from 
the  incoherent  tales  of  Belgian  refugees.  The  French  news- 
papers still  contained  vague  and  cheerful  bulletins  about 
their  own  military  situation,  and  filled  the  rest  of  their 
meager  space  with  eloquent  praise  of  les  braves  petits  Beiges. 
The  war  was  still  hidden  behind  impenetrable  walls  of  silence. 
Gradually,  however,  as  I  dodged  about  the  western  side  of 
France,  from  the  middle  to  the  end  of  August,  it  became  clear' 
to  me,  and  to  my  two  friends,  the  Philosopher  and  the 
Strategist,  who  each  in  his  way  of  wisdom  confirmed  my 
worst  suspicions,  that  the  situation  for  both  the  French  and 
the  British  armies  was  enormously  grave.  In  spite  of  the 
difficulty  of  approaching  the  war  zone  —  at  that  time  there 
was  no  certain  knowledge  as  to  the  line  of  front  —  we  were 
seeing  things  which  could  not  be  concealed  by  any  censor- 
ship. We  saw,  too  clearly  for  any  doubt,  that  the  war  zone 
was  approaching  us,  steadily  and  rapidly.  The  shadow  of 
its  looming  terror  crept  across  the  fields  of  France,  though 
they  lay  all  golden  in  the  sunlight  of  the  harvest  month. 

After  the  struggling  tides  of  fugitive  tourists,  and  over- 
lapping the  waves  of  Belgian  refugees,  there  came  new 
streams  of  panic-stricken  people,  and  this  time  they  were 
French.  They  came  from  the  northern  towns  —  Lille,  Rou- 
baix,  TourcQing,  Armentieres,  and  from  scores  of  villages 


e4i  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

further  south  which  head  seemed  utterly  safe  and  aloof  from 
hostile  armies  which,  with  faith  in  official  communiques  issued 
by  the  French  Ministry  of  War,  we  believed  to  be  still 
checked  beyond  the  French  frontier  in  Belgium.  Lille? 
Was  Lille  threatened  by  the  Kaiser's  troops?  It  had  been 
evacuated?  No,  that  could  not  be  true,  unless  treachery 
had  been  at  work.  Lille  could  hold  out,  surely,  at  least  as 
long  as  Liege !  Had  we  not  read  long  articles  by  the  mili- 
tary experts  of  the  French  press  describing  the  strength  of 
that  town  and  the  impregnable  position  of  its  forts?  Yet 
here  were  refugees  from  Lille  who  had  heard  the  roar  of 
German  guns,  and  brought  incredible  stories  of  French 
troops  in  retreat,  and  spoke  the  name  of  a  French  general 
with  bitter  scorn,  and  the  old  cry  of  Nous  sommes  trahis! 

The  refugees  from  the  north  were  in  as  pitiable  a  state  as 
those  who  had  preceded  them  from  Belgium.  More  pitiable, 
because  when  they  reached  such  ports  as  Calais  or  Boulogne 
or  Havre,  the  hotels  and  lodging  houses  were  overcrowded 
from  attic  to  cellars,  the  buffets  had  been  swept  clear  of 
food,  and  committees  of  relief  were  already  distracted  with 
the  overwhelming  needs  of  a  Belgian  invasion. 

I  remember  a  day  and  night  in  Boulogne.  The  narrow 
streets  —  evil  with  odors  brought  forth  by  a  hot  sun  —  were 
filled  with  surging  crowds  which  became  denser  as  new  trains 
arrived  from  Calais  and  Dunkirk  and  junctions  on  northern 
lines.  The  people  carried  with  them  the  salvage  of  their 
homes,  wrapped  up  in  blankets,  sheets,  towels,  and  bits  of 
ragged  paper.  Parcels  of  grotesque  shapes,  containing  cop- 
per pots,  frying  pans,  clocks,  crockery,  and  all  kinds  of 
domestic  utensils  or  treasured  ornaments,  bulged  on  the  pave- 
ments and  quaysides,  where  whole  families  sat  encamped. 
Stalwart  mothers  of  Normandy  and  Picardy  trudged  through 
the  streets  with  children  clinging  to  their  skirts,  with  babies 
in  their  arms  and  with  big  French  loaves  —  the  commissariat 
of  these  journeys  of  despair  —  cuddled  to  their  bosoms  with 
the  babes.     Old  grandfathers  and  grandmothers,  who  looked 


THE     SECRET     WAR  65 

as  though  they  had  never  left  their  native  villages  before, 
came  hand  in  hand,  with  shaking  heads  and  watery  eyes, 
bewildered  by  all  this  turmoil  of  humanity  which  had  been 
thrust  out,  like  themselves,  from  its  familiar  ways  of  life. 
Well-to-do  bourgeois,  hot,  with  frayed  nerves,  exhausted  by 
an  excess  of  emotion  and  fatigue,  searched  for  lodgings,  any- 
where and  at  any  price,  jostled  by  armies  of  peasants, 
shaggy-haired,  in  clumping  sabots,  with  bundles  on  their 
backs,  who  were  wandering  on  the  same  quest  for  the  sake 
of  the  women  and  children  dragging  wearily  in  their  wake. 
I  heard  a  woman  cry  out  words  of  surrender.  "  Je  n'en 
peux  plus !  "  She  was  spent  and  could  go  no  further,  but 
halted  suddenly,  dumped  down  her  bundles  and  her  babies 
and,  leaning  against  a  sun-baked  wall,  thrust  the  back  of  a 
rough  hand  across  her  forehead,  with  a  moan  of  spiritual 
pain. 

"Ciel!  .  .  .  C'est  trop!  c'est  trop!" 

All  day  long  these  scenes  went  on,  until  I  could  bear 
them  no  longer,  but  went  indoors  to  the  room  which  made  me 
feel  a  selfish  monster  because  I  shared  it  with  only  two 
friends.  Boulogne  became  quiet  in  the  darkness.  Perhaps 
by  some  miracle  all  those  homeless  ones  had  found  a  shelter. 
...  I  awakened  out  of  a  drowsy  sleep  to  hear  the  tramp  of 
innumerable  feet.  A  new  army  of  fugitives  had  come  into 
the  town.  I  heard  voices  murmuring  below  my  window, 
arguing,  pleading.  There  was  a  banging  at  doors  down  the 
street. 

"  C'est  impossible !  II  n'y  a  pas  de  place !  II  y  a  une 
foule  qui  dort  en  plein  air.     Voyez !  voyez  !  " 

The  night  porter  slammed  his  own  door  in  a  rage.  Per- 
haps there  was  pity  in  his  heart  as  well  as  rage,  but  what  can 
a  man  do  when  people  demand  admittance  to  a  hotel  where 
there  are  already  six  people  in  the  bathroom  and  sixty  on  the 
floor  of  the  salon,  and  stiff  bodies  wrapped  in  blankets,  like 
corpses  in  eternal  sleep,  lying  about  in  the  corridors? 

"  There  are  crowds  of  people  sleeping  in  the  open  air,"  he 


66  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

said,  and  when  I  leaned  out  of  the  window,  staring  into  the 
darkness  of  the  night  and  breathing  in  the  cool  air  which 
had  an  autumn  touch,  I  saw  dimly  on  the  pavement  below 
huddled  figures  in  the  doorways  and  under  the  shelter  of  the 
eaves.  A  baby  wailed  with  a  thin  cry.  A  woman's  voice 
whimpered  just  below  my  window,  and  a  man  spoke  to  her. 

"  C'est  la  guerre !  " 

The  words  came  up  to  me  as  though  to  answer  the  ques- 
tion in  my  own  mind  as  to  why  such  things  should  be. 

"  C'est  la  guerre !  " 

Yes,  it  was  war;  with  its  brutality  against  women  and 
children,  its  horrible  stupidity,  its  senseless  overthrow  of  all 
life's  decencies,  and  comforts,  and  security.  The  non-com- 
batants were  not  to  be  spared,  though  they  had  not  asked 
for  war,  and  hated  it. 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  WAY  OF  RETREAT 

OMINOUS  things  were  happening  behind  the  screen. 
Good  God !  was  France  to  see  another  aniiee  terrible, 
a  second  edition  of  1870,  with  the  same  old  tale  of 
unreadiness,  corruption  in  high  quarters,  breakdown  of  or- 
ganization, and  national  humiliation  after  irreparable  dis- 
asters? 

The  very  vagueness  of  the  official  communiques  and  their 
word-jugglings  to  give  a  rose  color  to  black  shadows  ad- 
vancing rapidly  over  the  spirit  of  France  suggested  horrible 
uncertainties  to  those  who  were  groping  in  search  of  plain 
truth.  But  not  all  the  severity  of  the  censorship,  with  its 
strangle-grip  upon  the  truth-tellers,  could  hide  certain 
frightful  facts.  All  these  refugees  pouring  down  from  the 
north  could  not  be  silenced,  though  none  of  their  tales  ap- 
peared in  print.  They  came  with  the  news  that  Lille  was 
invested,  that  the  German  tide  was  rolling  upon  Armentieres, 
Roubaix,  Tourcoing,  and  Cambrai,  that  the  French  and  Eng- 
lish were  in  hard  retreat.  The  enemy's  cavalry  was  spread- 
ing out  in  a  great  fan,  with  outposts  of  Uhlans  riding  into 
villages  where  old  French  peasants  had  not  dreamed  of  being 
near  the  line  of  battle  until,  raising  their  heads  from  potato 
fields  or  staring  across  the  stacked  com,  they  had  seen  the 
pointed  casques  and  the  flash  of  the  sun  on  German  carbines. 
There  were  refugees  who  had  seen  the  beginning  of  battles, 
taking  flight  before  the  end  of  them.  I  met  some  from  Le 
Cateau,  who  had  stared  speechlessly  at  familiar  hills  over 
which  came  without  warning  great  forces  of  foreign  soldiers. 
The  English  had  come  first,  in  clouds  of  dust  which  powdered 

e7 


68  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

their  uniforms  and  whitened  their  sun-baked  faces.  They 
seemed  in  desperate  hurry  and  scratched  up  mounds  of  loose 
earth,  like  children  building  sand  castles,  and  jumped  down 
into  wayside  ditches  which  they  used  as  cover,  and  lay  on 
their  stomachs  in  the  beet-root  fields.  They  were  cheerful 
enough,  and  laughed  as  they  littered  the  countryside  with 
beef  tins,  and  smoked  cigarettes  incessantly,  as  they  lay 
scorched  under  the  glare  of  the  sun,  with  their  rifles  handy. 
Their  guns  were  swung  round  with  their  muzzles  nosing 
towards  the  rising  ground  from  which  these  English  soldiers 
had  come.  It  seemed  as  though  they  were  playing  games  of 
make  believe,  for  the  fun  of  the  thing.  The  French  peasants 
had  stood  round  grinning  at  these  English  boys  who  could 
not  understand  a  word  of  French,  but  chattered  cheerfully 
all  the  time  in  their  own  strange  language.  War  seemed 
very  far  away.  The  birds  were  singing  in  a  shrill  chorus. 
Golden  flowerlets  spangled  the  green  slopes.  The  sun  lay 
warm  upon  the  hillside,  and  painted  black  shadows  beneath 
the  full  foliage  of  the  trees.  It  was  the  harvest  peace  which 
these  peasants  had  known  all  the  years  of  their  lives.  Then 
suddenly  the  click  of  rifle  bolts,  a  rapid  change  in  the  atti- 
tude of  the  English  soldier  boys,  who  stared  northwards 
where  the  downs  rose  and  fell  in  soft  billows,  made  the 
French  peasants  gaze  in  that  direction,  shading  their  eyes 
from  the  hot  sun.  What  was  that  gray  shadow  moving? 
What  were  those  little  glints  and  flashes  in  the  grayness  of 
it?  What  were  all  those  thousands  of  little  ant-like  things 
crawling  forward  over  the  slopes?  Thousands  and  scores  of 
thousands  of  —  men,  and  horses,  and  guns  ! 

"  Les  Anglais?     Toujours  les  Anglais?  " 

An  English  officer  laughed,  in  a  queer  way,  without  any 
mirth  in  his  eyes. 

"  Les  Allemands,  mon  vieux.     Messieurs  les  Boches  !  " 

"  L'enemi?     Non  —  pas  possible !  " 

It  only  seemed  possible  that  it  was  the  enemy  when  from 
that  army  of  ants  on  the  hillsides  there  came  forth  little  puffs 


THE     WAY     OF     RETREAT  69 

of  white  smoke,  and  little  stabbing  flames,  and  when,  quite 
soon,  some  of  those  English  bo3^s  lay  in  a  huddled  way  over 
their  rifles,  with  their  sunburned  faces  on  the  warm  earth. 
The  harvest  peace  was  broken  by  the  roar  of  guns  and  the  rip 
of  bullets.  Into  the  blue  of  the  sky  rose  clouds  of  greenish 
smoke.  Pieces  of  jagged  steel,  like  flying  scythes,  sliced  the 
trees  on  the  roadside.  The  beet-root  fields  spurted  up  earth, 
and  great  holes  were  being  dug  by  unseen  plows.  .  .  .  Then, 
across  the  distant  slopes  behind  the  smoke  clouds  and  the 
burst  of  flame,  came,  and  came,  a  countless  army,  moving 
down  towards  those  British  soldiers. 

So  the  peasants  had  fled  with  a  great  fear. 

There  was  an  extraordinary  quietude  in  some  of  the  port 
towns  of  northern  France.  At  first  I  could  not  understand 
the  meaning  of  it  when  I  went  from  Calais  to  Boulogne,  and 
then  to  Havre.  In  Calais  I  saw  small  bodies  of  troops  mov- 
ing out  of  the  town  early  in  the  morning,  so  that  afterwards 
there  was  not  a  soldier  to  be  seen  about  the  streets.  In  Bou- 
logne the  same  thing  happened,  quietly,  and  without  any 
bugle  calls  or  demonstrations.  Not  only  had  all  the  sol- 
diers gone,  but  they  were  followed  by  the  police,  whom  I  saw 
marching  away  in  battalions,  each  man  carrying  a  little  bun- 
dle, like  the  refugees  who  carried  all  their  worldly  goods 
with  them,  wrapped  in  a  blanket  or  a  pocket-handkerchief, 
according  to  the  haste  of  their  flight.  Down  on  the  quay 
there  were  no  custom  house  officers  to  inspect  the  baggage 
of  the  few  travelers  who  had  come  across  the  Channel  and 
now  landed  on  the  deserted  siding,  bewildered  because  there 
were  no  porters  to  clamor  for  their  trunks  and  no  douane 
to  utter  the  familiar  ritual  of  "  Avez-vous  quelque-chose  a 
declarer.?  Tabac?  Cigarettes?  .  .  ."  For  the  first  time  in 
living  memory,  perhaps  in  the  history  of  the  port,  the  douane 
of  Boulogne  had  abandoned  its  oflice.  What  did  it  all  mean? 
Why  were  the  streets  so  deserted  as  though  the  town  had 
been  stricken  with  the  plague? 

There  was  a  look  of  plague  in  the  faces  of  the  few  fisher- 


70  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

men  and  harbor  folk  who  stood  in  groups  at  the  street  cor- 
ners. There  was  a  haggard  fear  in  their  eyes  and  they 
talked  in  low  voices,  as  though  discussing  some  doom  that 
had  come  upon  them.  Even  the  houses  had  a  plaguy  aspect, 
with  shuttered  windows  and  barred  doors.  The  town,  which 
had  resounded  to  the  tramp  of  British  regiments  and  to  the 
tune  of  "  Tipperary,"  these  streets  through  which  had  surged 
a  tide  of  fugitives,  with  wave  after  wave  of  struggling  crowds, 
had  become  a  silent  place,  with  only  a  few  shadows  creeping 
through  the  darkness  of  that  evening  in  war,  and  whispering 
a  fear. 

The  truth  came  to  me  as  a  shock.  The  ports  of  France 
had  been  abandoned.  They  lay  open  to  the  enemy,  and  if 
any  Uhlans  came  riding  in,  or  a  German  officer  in  a  motor- 
car with  three  soldiers  to  represent  an  army,  Calais  and 
Boulogne  would  be  surrendered  without  a  shot. 

Looking  back  upon  those  days  the  thing  seems  incon- 
ceivable. Months  afterwards  the  enemy  tried  to  fight  its 
way  to  Calais  and  failed  after  desperate  attacks  which  cost 
the  lives  of  thousands  of  German  soldiers  and  a  stubborn 
defense  which,  more  than  once,  was  almost  pierced  and 
broken.  "  The  Fight  for  Calais  "  is  a  chapter  of  history 
which  for  the  Germans  is  written  in  blood.  It  is  amazing  to 
remember  that  in  the  last  days  of  August  Calais  was  offered 
as  a  free  gift,  with  Boulogne  and  Dieppe  to  follow,  if  they 
cared  to  come  for  them. 

Even  Havre  was  to  be  abandoned  as  the  British  base.  It 
was  only  a  little  while  since  enormous  stores  had  been  dumped 
here  for  the  provisioning  and  equipment  of  our  expeditionary 
force.  Now  I  saw  a  great  packing  up.  "  K."  had  issued 
an  amazing  order  which  made  certain  young  gentlemen  of 
the  A.S.C.  whistle  between  their  teeth  and  say  rather  quietly : 
"  Ye  gods !  things  must  be  looking  a  bit  blue  up  there." 
The  new  base  was  to  be  much  further  south,  at  St.  Nazaire, 
to  which  the  last  tin  of  bully  beef  or  Maconochie  was  to  be 


THE     WAY     OF     RETREAT  71 

consigned,  without  delay.  Yes,  things  were  looking  very 
"blue,"  just  then. 

One  may  afford  now  to  write  about  mistakes,  even  the 
mistakes  of  our  French  Allies,  who  have  redeemed  them  all 
by  a  national  heroism  beyond  the  highest  words  of  praise, 
and  by  a  fine  struggle  for  efficiency  and  organization  which 
were  lamentably  lacking  in  the  early  days  of  the  war. 
Knowing  now  the  frightful  blunders  committed  at  the  outset, 
and  the  hair's-breadth  escape  from  tremendous  tragedy,  the 
miracle  of  the  sudden  awakening  which  enabled  France  to 
shake  off  her  lethargy  and  her  vanity,  and  to  make  a  tiger's 
pounce  upon  an  enemy  which  had  almost  brought  her  to  her 
knees  is  one  of  the  splendid  things  in  the  world's  history 
which  wipe  out  all  rankling  criticism. 

Yet  then,  before  the  transformation,  the  days  were  full 
of  torture  for  those  who  knew  something  of  the  truth.  By 
what  fatal  microbe  of  folly  had  the  French  generals  been 
tempted  towards  that  adventure  in  Alsace?  Sentiment, 
overwhelming  commonsense,  had  sent  the  finest  troops  in 
France  to  the  frontiers  of  the  "  lost  provinces,"  so  that 
Paris  might  have  its  day  of  ecstasy  round  the  statue  of 
Quand-Meme.  While  the  Germans  were  smashing  their  way 
through  Belgium,  checked  only  a  little  while  at  Liege,  and 
giving  a  clear  warning  of  the  road  by  which  they  would 
come  to  France,  the  French  active  army  was  massed  in  the 
east  from  Luxembourg  to  Nancy  and  wasting  the  strength 
which  should  have  been  used  to  bar  the  northern  roads,  in 
pressing  forward  to  Mulhouse  and  Altkirch.  It  gave 
Georges  Scott  the  subject  of  a  beautiful  allegory  in  U Illus- 
tration —  that  French  soldier  clasping  the  Alsatian  girl  res- 
cued from  the  German  grip.  It  gave  Parisian  journalists, 
gagged  about  all  other  aspects  of  the  war  zone,  a  chance  of 
heroic  writing,  filled  with  the  emotion  of  old  heartaches  now 
changed  to  joy.  Only  the  indiscretion  of  a  deputy  hinted 
for  a  moment  at  a  bad  reverse  at  Mulhouse,  when  a  regiment 


73  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

recruited  from  the  South,  broke  and  fled  under  the  fire  of 
German  guns  because  they  were  unsupported  by  their  own 
artillery.  "  Two  generals  have  been  cashiered."  "  Some  of 
the  officers  have  been  shot."  Tragic  rumors  leaked  into 
Paris,  spoiling  the  dream  of  an  irresistible  advance. 

So  far,  however,  neither  Paris  nor  the  French  public  as  a 
whole  had  any  inkling  of  graver  things  than  this.  They  did 
not  know  —  how  could  they  know  anything  of  this  secret 
war?  —  that  on  all  parts  of  the  front  the  French  armies 
were  falling  back  before  the  German  invasion  which  bore 
down  upon  them  in  five  great  columns  of  overwhelming 
strength,  and  that  on  the  extreme  left,  nearest  to  Paris,  the 
French  army  was  miserably  weak,  made  up  for  the  most  part 
of  old  Territorials  who  were  never  meant  to  be  in  the  first 
line  of  defense,  and  of  African  regiments  who  had  never  seen 
shell-fire,  so  that  the  main  German  attack  could  only  be  held 
back  by  a  little  British  army  which  had  just  set  foot  on  the 
soil  of  France. 

Everywhere,  from  east  to  west,  the  French  were  yielding 
before  the  terrific  onslaught  of  the  German  legions,  who  came 
on  in  close  formation,  reckless  of  their  losses,  but  always 
advancing,  over  the  bodies  of  their  dead,  with  masses  of  light 
artillery  against  which  the  French  gunners,  with  all  their 
skill  and  courage,  could  not  hold  ground.  By  a  series  of 
strange  adventures,  which  took  me  into  the  vortex  of  the 
French  retreat,  into  the  midst  of  confused  movements  of 
troops  rushed  up  to  various  points  of  menace  and  into  the 
tide  of  wounded  which  came  streaming  back  from  the  fighting 
lines,  I  was  able  to  write  the  first  account  which  gave  any 
clear  idea  of  the  general  situation  —  sharing  this  chance  with 
the  Philosopher  and  the  Strategist  who  were  my  fellow  trav- 
elers —  and,  by  good  luck  again,  the  censor  was  kind  to  me 
in  England.  French  officers  and  soldiers  with  bandaged 
heads  and  limbs  told  me  their  stories,  while  their  wounds 
were  still  wet,  and  while  their  clothes  still  reeked  of  the  smoke 
of  battle.     Women  who  had  fled  with  empty  hands  from  lit- 


THE     WAY     OF     RETREAT  ,73 

tie  chateaux  on  the  hillsides  of  France,  with  empty  hearts 
too  because  they  had  no  hope  for  husbands  still  fighting  in 
the  inferno,  described  to  me  the  scenes  which  still  made  them 
pant  like  wild  animals  caught  after  a  chase.  And  with  my 
own  eyes  I  saw  the  unforgettable  drama  of  the  French  army 
in  retreat,  blowing  up  bridges  on  its  way,  shifting  to  new 
lines  of  defense,  awaiting  with  its  guns  ready  for  a  new  stage 
of  the  enemy's  advance. 

Out  of  a  wild  confusion  of  impressions,  the  tumult  of 
these  scenes,  the  inevitable  contradictions  and  inconsistencies 
and  imaginings  of  men  and  women  drunk  with  the  excitement 
of  this  time,  I  sorted  out  some  clear  threads  of  fact  and  with 
the  aid  of  the  Strategist,  who  spread  out  his  maps  on  way- 
side banks,  blotting  out  the  wild  flowers,  or  on  the  marble- 
topped  tables  outside  fly-blown  estaminets  in  village  streets, 
tracked  out  the  line  of  the  German  advance  and  saw  the  peril 
of  the  French. 

From  one  of  my  despatches  I  transcribe  a  narrative  which 
records  one  of  the  most  bloody  battles  in  the  first  phase  of 
the  war.  Written  to  the  jolt  of  a  troop  train,  in  which 
wounded  men  hugged  their  bandaged  hands,  it  tells  how  five 
thousand  Frenchmen  did  their  best  to  check  a  German  army 
corps. 

August  29. 

It  was  nearly  a  fortnight  ago  that  the  Germans  concen- 
trated their  heaviest  forces  upon  Namur,  and  began  to  press 
southwards  and  over  the  Meuse  Valle3\  After  the  battle  of 
Dinant  the  French  army,  among  whom,  at  this  point,  were 
the  2nd  and  the  7th  Corps,  were  heavily  outnumbered  at  the 
time,  and  had  to  fall  back  gradually  in  order  to  gain  time  for 
reenforcements  to  come  up  to  their  support.  The  French 
artillery  was  up  on  the  wooded  heights  above  the  river,  and 
swept  the  German  regiments  with  a  storm  of  fire  as  they 
advanced.  On  the  right  bank  the  French  infantry  was  en- 
trenched, supported  by  field  guns  and  mitrailleuses,  and  did 
very  deadly  work  before  leaping  from  the  trenches  which  they 


74  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

occupied  and  taking  up  position  in  new  trenches  further 
back,  which  they  held  with  great  tenacity.  In  justice  to  the 
Germans,  it  must  be  said  that  they  were  heroic  in  their 
courage.  They  were  reckless  of  their  lives,  and  the  valley  of 
the  Meuse  was  choked  with  their  corpses.  The  river  itself 
was  strewn  with  dead  bodies  of  men  and  horses,  and  literally 
ran  red  with  blood.  The  most  tremendous  fighting  took 
place  for  the  possession  of  the  bridges,  but  the  French  engi- 
neers blew  them  up  one  after  the  other  as  they  retired  south- 
wards. No  fewer  than  thirty-three  bridges  were  destroyed 
in  this  way  before  they  could  be  seized  by  the  German  ad- 
vance guard.  The  fighting  was  extended  for  a  considerable 
distance  on  either  side  of  the  Meuse,  and  many  engagements 
took  place  between  the  French  and  German  cavalry  and  regi- 
ments working  away  from  the  main  armies. 

There  was,  for  instance,  a  memorable  encounter  at  Merville 
which  is  one  of  the  most  heroic  episodes  of  the  war.  Five 
thousand  French  soldiers  of  all  arms,  with  quick-firers,  en- 
gaged twenty  thousand  German  infantry.  In  spite  of  being 
outnumbered  in  this  way,  the  French  dash  and  "  bite,"  as 
they  call  it,  was  so  splendid  that  they  beat  back  the  enemy 
from  point  to  point  in  a  fight  lasting  for  twelve  hours,  in- 
flicting a  tremendous  punishment,  and  suffering  very  few 
losses  on  their  own  side.  A  German  officer  captured  in  this 
engagement  expressed  his  unbounded  admiration  for  the  valor 
of  the  French  troops,  which  he  described  as  "  superb."  It 
was  only  for  fear  of  getting  too  far  out  of  touch  with  the 
main  forces  that  the  gallant  five  thousand  desisted  from  their 
irresistible  attack,  and  retired,  with  a  large  number  of  Ger- 
man helmets  as  trophies  of  their  victorious  action.  Never- 
theless, in  accordance  with  the  general  plan  which  had  been 
decided  upon  by  the  French  generals  in  view  of  the  superior 
numbers  pressing  upon  them,  the  French  troops  retreated 
and  the  Germans  succeeded  in  forcing  their  way  steadily 
down  the  Meuse  as  far  as  Mezieres,  divided  by  a  bridge  from 
Charleville  on  the  other  side  of  the  river.     This  is  in  the 


THE     WAY     OF     RETREAT  75 

neighborhood  of  Sedan,  and  in  the  hollow  or  trou,  as  it  is 
called,  which  led  to  the  great  disaster  of  1870,  when  the 
French  army  was  caught  in  a  trap,  and  threatened  with 
annihilation  by  the  Germans,  who  had  taken  possession  of 
the  surrounding  heights.  There  was  to  be  no  repetition  of 
that  tragedy.  The  French  were  determined  that  this  time 
the  position  would  be  reversed. 

On  Monday,  August  24,  the  town  of  Charleville  was  evacu- 
ated, most  of  its  civilians  were  sent  away  to  join  the  wan- 
derers who  had  to  leave  their  homes,  and  the  French  troops 
took  up  magnificent  positions  commanding  the  town  and  the 
three  bridges  dividing  it  from  Mezieres.  Mitrailleuses  were 
hidden  in  the  abandoned  houses,  and  as  a  disagreeable  shock 
to  any  German  who  might  escape  their  fire  was  a  number  of 
the  enemy's  ^ns  —  no  fewer  than  ninety-five  of  them  — 
which  had  been  captured  and  disabled  by  the  French  troops 
in  the  series  of  battles  down  the  river  from  Namur.  The 
German  outposts  reached  Charleville  on  Tuesday,  August  25. 
They  were  allowed  to  ride  quietly  across  the  bridges  into  the 
apparently  deserted  town.  Then  suddenly  their  line  of  re- 
treat was  cut  off.  The  three  bridges  were  blown  up  by  con- 
tact mines,  and  the  mitrailleuses  hidden  in  the  houses  were 
played  on  to  the  German  cavalry  across  the  street,  killing 
them  in  a  frightful  slaughter.  It  was  for  a  little  while  a 
sheer  massacre  in  that  town  of  white  houses  with  pretty 
gardens  where  flowers  were  blooming  under  the  brilliant  sun- 
shine of  a  glorious  summer  day.  But  the  Germans  fought 
with  extraordinary  tenacity,  regardless  of  the  heaped  bodies 
of  their  comrades,  and  utterly  reckless  of  their  own  lives. 
They,  too,  had  brought  quick-firers  across  the  bridges  and, 
taking  cover  behind  some  of  the  houses,  trained  their  guns 
upon  those  from  which  the  French  gunners  were  firing  their 
last  shots.  There  was  no  way  of  escape  for  those  heroic 
men  who  voluntarily  sacrificed  themselves  in  the  sen'ice  of 
their  country,  and  it  is  probable  that  ever}'^  man  died,  be- 
cause at  such  a  time  the  Germans  are  not  in  the  habit  of 


76  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

giving  quarter.  When  the  main  German  advance  came  down 
the  valley  the  French  artillery  on  the  heights  raked  them 
with  a  terrific  fire  in  which  they  suffered  heavy  losses,  the 
forefront  of  the  column  being  mowed  down.  But  under  this 
storm  of  fire  they  proceeded  with  incredible  coolness  to  their 
pontoon  bridges  across  the  river,  and  although  hundreds  of 
men  died  on  the  banks  they  succeeded  in  their  endeavor 
while  their  guns  searched  the  hills  with  shells  and  forced  the 
French  gunners  to  retire  from  their  positions.  The  occupa- 
tion of  Charleville  was  a  German  victory,  but  it  was  also  a 
German  graveyard. 

After  this  historic  episode  in  what  had  been  an  unending 
battle,  the  main  body  of  the  French  troops  withdrew  before 
the  Germans,  who  were  now  pouring  down  the  valley,  and 
retired  to  new  ground. 

Meanwhile,  on  the  western  side  of  the  battle  line,  the 
French  army  was  holding  a  crescent  from  Abbeville,  round 
the  south  of  Amiens,  and  the  situation  was  not  a  happy  one 
in  view  of  the  rapid  advance  of  the  enemy  under  General  von 
Kluck,  before  whom  the  British  troops  were  already  in  con- 
tinual battle. 

I  shall  not  soon  forget  a  dreadful  night  near  Amiens,  when 
I  saw  beaten  and  broken  men  coming  back  from  the  firing 
lines,  and  the  death-carts  passing  down  the  roads.  The 
whole  day  had  been  exciting  and  unnerving.  The  roads 
along  which  I  had  passed  were  filled  with  soldiers  marching 
towards  an  enemy  which  was  rapidly  drawing  close  upon 
them,  for  whom  they  seemed  but  ill-prepared  —  and  by  civil- 
ians stampeding  with  wild  rumors  that  the  Uhlans  were  close 
upon  them. 

They  were  not  very  far  wrong.  At  Picquigny,  they  were 
less  than  four  miles  distant  —  a  small  patrol  of  outposts  be- 
longing to  the  squadrons  which  were  sweeping  out  in  a  fan 
through  the  northern  towns  and  villages  of  France. 

As  I  passed,  French  Territorials  were  hastily  digging 
trenches  close  to  the  railway  line.     Reports  came  from  sta- 


THE     WAY     OF     RETREAT  77 

tions  further  along  that  the  line  might  be  cut  at  any  mo- 
ment. A  train  crowded  with  French  and  Belgian  fugitives 
had  come  to  a  dead  halt.  The  children  were  playing  on  the 
banks  —  with  that  divine  carelessness  and  innocence  which 
made  one's  heart  ache  for  them  in  this  beastly  business  of 
war  —  and  their  fathers  and  mothers,  whose  worldly  goods 
had  been  packed  into  baskets  and  brown  paper  parcels  —  the 
poor  relics  of  all  that  had  been  theirs  —  wondered  whether 
after  all  their  sufferings  and  struggles  they  would  reach  the 
town  of  Amiens  and  find  safety  there. 

It  was  obvious  to  me  that  there  was  a  thrill  of  uneasiness 
in  the  military  machine  operating  in  the  district.     Troops 
were  being  hurried  up  in  a  northwesterly  direction.     A  regi- 
ment of  Algerians  came  swinging  along  the  road.     The  sight 
of  the  Turcos   put   some  heart   into   the   fugitives.     Those 
brown  faces  were  laughing  like  children  at  the  prospect  of  a 
fight.     They  waved  their  hands  with  the  curious  Arab  ges- 
ture of  salute,   and  shuffled  along  merrily  with  their  rifles 
slung  behind  their  backs.     Military  motor-cars  carrying  lit- 
tle parties  of  French  officers  swept  down  the  roads,  and  then 
there  were  no  more  battalions  but  only  stragglers,  and  hurry- 
ing fugitives  driving  along  in  farmers'  carts,  packed  with 
household   goods,   in    two-wheeled   gigs,   overburdened   with 
women  and  children,  riding  on  bicycles,  with  parcels  tied  to 
the  saddles,  or  trudging  wearily  and  anxiously  along,  away 
from   the   fear  where   the   blood-red   sun   was    setting  over 
France.     It  was  pitiful  to  see  the  children  clinging  to  the 
women's  skirts  along  that  road  of  panic,  and  pitiful,  but  fine, 
to  see  the  courage  of  those  women.     Then  night  fell  and 
darkness  came  across  the  fields  of  France,  and  through  the 
darkness  many  grim  shadows  of  war,  looming  up  against 
one's  soul. 

There  was  "  une  affaire  dcs  patrouilles  " —  what  the  Brit- 
ish soldier  calls  a  "  scrap  " —  along  the  road  at  Albert,  be- 
tween Amiens  and  Cambrai.  A  party  of  German  Uhlans, 
spreading  out  from  a  strong  force  at  Cambrai  itself,  had 


78  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

been  engaged  by  the  French  Territorials,  and  after  some 
sharp  fighting  had  retired,  leaving  several  dead  horses  in  the 
dust  and  a  few  huddled  forms  from  which  the  French  sol- 
diers had  taken  burnished  helmets  and  trophies  to  their 
women  folk. 

That  was  on  Friday  night  of  August  28.  The  real  fight- 
ing was  taking  place  fifteen  kilometers  further  along  the 
road,  at  a  place  called  Bapeaume.  All  day  on  Friday  there 
was  very  heavy  fighting  here  on  the  left  center,  and  a  victory 
was  announced  by  the  French  Ministry  of  War. 

I  did  not  see  the  victory.  I  saw  only  the  retreat  of  some 
of  the  French  forces  engaged  in  the  battle. 

It  was  a  few  minutes  before  midnight  on  that  Friday,  when 
they  came  back  along  the  road  to  Amiens,  crawling  back 
slowly  in  a  long,  dismal  trail,  with  ambulance  wagons  laden 
with  dead  and  dj'ing,  with  hay-carts  piled  high  with  saddles 
and  accouterments  upon  which  there  lay,  immobile,  like  men 
already  dead,  spent  and  exhausted  soldiers.  They  passed 
through  crowds  of  silent  people  —  the  citizens  of  Amiens  — 
who  only  whispered  as  they  stared  at  this  procession  in  the 
darkness.  A  cuirassier  with  his  head  bent  upon  his  chest 
stumbled  fon^'ard,  leading  a  horse  too  weak  and  tired  to  bear 
him.  There  were  many  other  men  leading  their  poor  beasts 
in  this  way,  and  infantry  soldiers,  some  of  them  with  band- 
aged heads,  clung  on  to  the  backs  of  the  carts  and  wagons, 
and  seemed  to  be  asleep  as  they  shuffled  by.  The  light  from 
the  roadside  lamps  gleamed  upon  blanched  faces  and  glazed 
eyes  —  flashed  now  and  then  into  the  caverns  of  canvas- 
covered  carts  where  twisted,  bandaged  men  lay  huddled  on 
the  straw.  Not  a  groan  came  from  those  carts.  There  was 
no  shout  of  "  Vive  la  France !  "  from  the  crowd  of  citizens 
who  are  not  silent  as  a  rule  when  their  soldiers  pass. 

Every  one  knew  it  was  a  retreat,  and  the  knowledge  was 
colder  than  the  mist  of  night.  The  carts,  carrying  the  quick 
and  the  dead,  rumbled  by  in  a  long  convoy,  the  drooping 
heads  of  the  soldiers  turned  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the 


THE     WAY     OF     RETREAT  79 

left  for  any  greeting  with  old  friends ;  there  was  a  hugger- 
mugger  of  uniforms  on  provision  carts  and  ambulances.  It 
was  a  part  of  the  wreckage  and  wastage  of  the  war,  and  to 
the  onlooker,  exaggerating  unconsciously  the  importance  of 
the  things  close  at  hand  and  visible,  it  seemed  terrible  in  its 
significance,  and  an  ominous  reminder  of  1870,  when  through 
Amiens  there  came  the  dismal  tramp  of  beaten  men.  Really 
this  was  the  inevitable  part  of  a  serious  battle,  and  not  neces- 
sarily the  retreat  from  a  great  disaster. 

I  turned  away  from  it,  rather  sick  at  heart.  It  is  not  a 
pleasant  thing  to  see  men  walking  like  living  corpses,  or  as 
though  drugged  with  fatigue.  It  is  heartrending  to  see  poor 
beasts  stumbling  forward  at  every  step  at  the  very  last  gasp 
of  their  strength  until  they  fall  never  to  rise  again. 

But  more  pitiful  even  than  this  drift  back  from  Bapeaume 
were  the  scenes  which  followed  immediately  as  I  turned  back 
into  the  town.  Thousands  of  boys  had  been  called  out  to 
the  colors,  and  had  been  brought  up  from  the  country  to  be 
sent  forward  to  the  second  lines  of  defense.  They  were  the 
reservists  of  the  1914  class,  and  many  of  them  were  shouting 
and  singing,  though  here  and  there  a  white-faced  boy  tried 
to  hide  his  tears  as  women  from  the  crowd  ran  to  embrace 
him.  The  Marseillaise,  the  hymn  of  faith,  rang  out  a  little 
raggedly,  but  bravely  all  the  same.  The  lads  — "  poor  chil- 
dren "  they  were  called  by  a  white-haired  man  who  watched 
them  —  were  keeping  up  the  valor  of  their  hearts  by  noisy 
demonstrations  ;  but  having  seen  the  death-carts  pass  through 
the  darkness  between  lines  of  silent  and  dejected  onlookers,  I 
could  not  bear  to  look  into  the  faces  of  those  little  ones  of 
France  who  were  following  their  fathers  to  the  guns.  Once 
again  I  had  to  turn  away  to  blot  out  the  pictures  of  war  in 
the  velvety  darkness  of  the  night. 

Early  next  morning  there  was  a  thrill  of  anxiety  in  Amiens 
itself.  Reports  had  come  through  that  the  railway  line  had 
been  cut  between  Boulogne  and  Abbeville.  There  had  been 
mysterious  movements  of  regiments  from  the  town  barracks. 


60  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

They  had  moved  out  of  Amiens,  and  there  was  a  strange 
quietude  in  the  streets,  hardly  a  man  in  uniform  to  be  seen 
in  places  which  had  been  filled  with  soldiers  the  day  before. 
I  think  only  a  few  people  realized  the  actual  significance  of 
all  this.  Only  a  few  —  the  friends  of  officers  or  the  friends 
of  officers'  friends  —  had  heard  that  Amiens  itself  was  to  be 
evacuated. 

To  these  people  it  seemed  incredible  and  horrible  —  an 
admission  that  France  was  being  beaten  to  her  knees.  How 
could  they  believe  the  theory  of  an  optimist  among  them 
that  it  was  a  part  of  a  great  plan  to  secure  the  safety  of 
France.''  How  could  they  realize  that  the  town  itself  would 
be  saved  from  possible  bombardment  by  this  withdrawal  of 
the  troops  to  positions  which  would  draw  the  Germans  into 
the  open?  They  only  knew  that  they  were  undefended,  and 
presently  they  found  that  the  civilian  trains  were  being 
suspended,  and  that  there  would  be  no  way  of  escape.  It  was 
in  the  last  train  that  by  a  stroke  of  luck  I  escaped  from 
Amiens.  Shortly  afterwards  the  tunnel  leading  to  the  junc- 
tion was  blown  up  by  the  French  engineers,  and  the  beautiful 
city  of  Amiens  was  cut  off  from  all  communication  with  the 
outer  world. 

It  was  on  the  last  train  that  I  realized  to  the  full  of  its 
bitterness  the  brutality  of  war  as  it  bludgeons  the  heart  of 
the  non-combatant.  In  the  carriage  with  me  were  French 
ladies  and  children  who  had  been  shunted  about  the  country 
in  the  endeavor  to  escape  the  zone  of  military  operations. 
Their  husbands  were  fighting  for  France,  and  they  could  not 
tell  whether  they  were  alive  or  dead.  They  had  been  without 
any  solid  food  for  several  days,  and  the  nerv^es  of  those  poor 
women  were  tried  to  the  uttermost,  not  by  any  fear  for  their 
own  sakes,  but  for  the  sake  of  the  little  ones,  which  was  all 
they  could  save  from  the  wreckage  of  their  lives,  all,  yet 
enough  if  they  could  save  them  to  the  end.  One  lady  whose 
house  had  been  burned  by  the  Germans  had  walked  over 
twenty  miles  with  a  small  boy  and  girl. 


THE     WAY     OF     RETREAT  81 

For  a  little  while,  when  she  told  me  her  story  she  wept 
passionately,  yet  only  for  a  few  minutes.  For  the  sake  of 
her  handsome  boy,  who  had  a  hero's  courage,  and  for  the  tiny 
girl  who  clung  to  her,  she  resisted  this  breakdown  and  con- 
quered herself. 

*'  That  is  the  real  meaning  of  war,  almost  the  worst  tragedy 
of  it"  (so  I  wrote  at  the  time).  "The  soldier  suffers  less 
than  the  women  and  the  non-combatants.  His  agony  per- 
haps is  sharper,  but  the  wound  of  the  spirit  is  hardest  to 
bear." 

So  it  seemed  to  me  then,  before  I  had  seen  greater  ghastli- 
ness.  I  was  surprised  also  by  the  cheerfulness  of  some  of  our 
wounded  soldiers.  They  were  the  "  light  cases,"  and  had 
the  pluck  to  laugh  at  their  pain.  Yet  even  they  had  had  a 
dreadful  time.  It  is  almost  time  to  say  that  the  only  rest 
they  had  was  when  they  were  carried  into  the  ambulance  cart 
or  the  field  hospital.  The  incessant  marching,  forwards  and 
backwards,  to  new  positions  in  the  blazing  sun  was  more 
awful  to  bear  than  the  actual  fighting  under  the  hideous  fire 
of  the  German  guns.  They  were  kept  on  the  move  con- 
stantly, except  for  the  briefest  lulls  —  when  officers  and  men 
dropped,  like  brown  leaves  from  autumn  trees,  on  each  side 
of  the  road,  so  utterly  exhausted  that  they  were  almost  sense- 
less, and  had  to  be  dragged  up  out  of  their  short  sleep  when 
once  again  they  tramped  on  to  a  new  line,  to  scratch  up  a  few 
earthworks,  to  fire  a  few  rounds  before  the  bugle  sounded  the 
cease  fire  and  another  strategical  retirement. 

On  September  2  the  Germans  had  reached  Creil  and  Senlis 
—  staining  their  honor  in  these  two  places  by  unnecessary 
cruelty  —  and  were  no  further  than  thirty  miles  from  Paris, 
so  that  the  shock  of  their  guns  might  be  heard  as  vague  vibra- 
tions in  the  capital. 

To  the  population  of  Paris,  and  to  all  civilians  in  France, 
it  seemed  a  stupendous  disaster,  this  rapid,  incredible  advance 
of  that  great  military  machine  of  death  which  nothing,  so  far, 
had  been  able  to  stop  —  not  even  the  unflinching  courage  and 


82  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

the  utter  recklessness  of  life  with  which  the  Allies  flung  them- 
selves against  it.  Yet  with  an  optimism  which  I  could  hardly 
justify,  I,  who  had  seen  the  soldiers  of  France,  was  still  confi- 
dent that,  so  far  from  all  being  lost,  there  was  hope  of  victory 
which  might  turn  the  German  advance. 

I  had  seen  the  superb  courage  of  French  regiments  rushing 
up  to  support  their  left  wing,  and  the  magnificent  confidence 
of  men  who  after  the  horrors  of  the  battlefields,  and  with  the 
full  consciousness  that  they  were  always  retiring,  still  said: 
"  We  shall  win.  We  are  leading  the  enemy  to  its  destruction. 
In  a  little  while  they  will  be  in  a  death-trap  from  which  there 
is  no  escape  for  them." 

*'  This  spirit,"  I  wrote  in  my  despatch,  "  must  win  in  the 
end.  It  is  impossible  that  it  should  be  beaten  in  the  long  run. 
And  the  splendor  of  this  French  courage,  in  the  face  of  what 
looks  like  defeat,  is  equaled  at  least  by  the  calm  and  dogged 
assurance  of  our  British  troops." 

They  repeated  the  same  words  to  me  over  and  over  again 
—  those  wounded  men,  those  outposts  at  points  of  peril,  those 
battalions  who  went  marching  on  to  another  fight,  without 
sleep,  without  rest,  knowing  the  foe  they  had  to  meet. 

"  We  are  all  right.  You  can  call  it  a  retreat  if  you  like. 
But  we  are  retreating  in  good  order  and  keeping  our  end  up." 

Retiring  in  good  order !  It  had  been  more  than  that. 
They  had  retired  before  a  million  of  men  swarming  across  the 
country  like  a  vast  ant-heap  on  the  move,  with  a  valor  that 
had  gained  for  the  British  and  French  forces  a  deathless 
glory.  Such  a  thing  has  never  been  done  before  in  the  his- 
tory of  warfare.  It  would  have  seemed  incredible  and 
impossible  to  military  experts,  who  know  the  meaning  of  such 
fighting,  and  the  frightful  difficulty  of  keeping  an  army 
together  in  such  circumstances. 

When  I  escaped  from  Amiens  before  the  tunnel  was  broken 
up  and  the  Germans  entered  into  possession  of  the  town  —  on 
August  28  —  the  front  of  the  allied  armies  was  in  a  crescent 
from  Abbeville  by  the  wooded  heights,  south  of  Amiens,  and 


THE     WAY     OF     RETREAT  83 

thence  in  an  irregular  line  to  the  south  of  Mezieres.  The 
British  forces  under  Sir  John  French  were  on  the  left  center, 
bearing  the  heavy  thrust  forward  of  the  German  right 
wing. 

On  Saturday  afternoon  fighting  was  resumed  along  the 
whole  line.  The  German  vanguard  had  by  this  time  been 
supported  by  fresh  army  corps,  which  had  been  brought  from 
Belgium.  At  least  a  million  men  were  on  the  move,  pressing 
upon  the  allied  forces  with  a  ferocity  of  attack  which  has 
never  been  equaled.  Their  cavalry  swept  across  a  great 
tract  of  country,  squadron  by  squadron,  like  the  mounted 
hordes  of  Attila,  but  armed  with  the  deadly  weapons  of 
modern  warfare.  Their  artillery  was  in  enormous  numbers, 
and  their  columns  advanced  under  the  cover  of  it,  not  like 
an  army,  but  rather  like  a  moving  nation.  It  did  not  move, 
however,  with  equal  pressure  at  all  parts  of  the  line.  It 
formed  itself  into  a  battering  ram  with  a  pointed  end,  and 
this  point  was  thrust  at  the  heart  of  the  English  wing  with 
its  base  at  St.  Quentin,  and  advanced  divisions  at  Peronne 
and  Ham.  It  was  impossible  to  resist  this  onslaught.  If  the 
British  forces  had  stood  against  it  they  would  have  been 
crushed  and  broken.  Our  gunners  were  magnificent,  and 
shelled  the  advancing  German  columns  so  that  the  dead  lay 
heaped  up  along  the  way  which  was  leading  down  to  Paris. 
But,  as  one  of  them  told  me,  "  It  made  no  manner  of  differ- 
ence. As  soon  as  we  had  smashed  one  lot  another  followed, 
column  after  column,  and  by  sheer  weight  of  numbers  we 
could  do  nothing  to  check  them." 

The  railway  was  destroyed  and  the  bridges  blown  up  on 
the  main  line  from  Amiens  to  Paris,  and  on  the  branch  lines 
from  Dieppe.  After  this  precaution  the  British  forces  fell 
back,  fighting  all  the  time,  as  far  as  Compiegne.  The  line  of 
the  Allies  was  now  in  the  shape  of  a  V,  the  Germans  thrusting 
their  main  attack  deep  into  the  angle. 

General  d'Amade,  the  most  popular  of  French  generals, 
owing  to  his  exploits  in  Morocco,  had  established  his  staff  at 


84  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

Aumale,  holding  the  extreme  left  of  the  allied  armies.  Some 
of  his  reserves  held  the  hills  running  east  and  west  at  Beau- 
vais,  and  they  were  in  touch  with  Sir  John  French's  cavalry 
along  the  road  to  Amiens. 

This  position  remained  until  Monday,  or  rather  had  com- 
pleted itself  by  that  date,  the  retirement  of  the  troops  being 
maintained  with  masterly  skill  and  without  any  undue  haste. 

Meanwhile  the  French  troops  were  sustaining  a  terrific 
attack  on  their  center  by  the  German  left  center,  which 
culminated  at  Guise,  on  the  River  Oise,  to  the  northeast  of 
St.  Quentin,  where  the  river,  which  runs  between  beautiful 
meadows,  was  choken  with  corpses  and  red  with  blood. 

From  an  eye-witness  of  this  great  battle  who  escaped 
with  a  slight  wound  —  an  officer  of  an  infantry  regiment  —  I 
learned  that  the  German  onslaught  had  been  repelled  by  the 
work  of  the  French-  gunners,  followed  by  a  series  of  bayonet 
and  cavalry  charges. 

"  The  Germans,"  he  said,  "  had  the  elite  of  their  army 
engaged  against  us,  including  the  10th  Army  Corps  and  the 
Imperial  Guard.  But  the  heroism  of  our  troops  was  sub- 
lime. Every  man  knew  that  the  safety  of  France  depended 
upon  him,  and  was  ready  to  sacrifice  his  life,  if  need  be,  with 
a  joyful  enthusiasm.  They  not  only  resisted  the  enemy's 
attack  but  took  the  offensive,  and,  in  spite  of  their  over- 
powering numbers,  gave  them  a  tremendous  punishment. 
They  had  to  recoil  before  our  guns,  which  swept  their  ranks, 
and  their  columns  were  broken  and  routed.  Hundreds  of 
them  were  bayoneted,  and  hundreds  more  hurled  into  the 
river,  while  the  whole  front  of  battle  was  outlined  by  the 
dead  and  dying  men  whom  they  had  to  abandon.  Certainly 
their  losses  were  enormous,  and  when  I  fell  the  German 
retreat  was  in  full  swing,  and  for  the  time  being  we  could 
claim  a  real  \nctory."  Nevertheless  the  inevitable  happened. 
Owing  to  the  vast  reserves  the  enemy  brought  up  fresh  di- 
visions, and  the  French  were  compelled  to  fall  back  upon 
Laon  and  La  Fere. 


THE     WAY     OF     RETREAT  86 

On  Tuesday  the  German  skirmishers  with  light  artillery 
were  coming  southwards  to  Beauvais,  and  the  sound  of  their 
field  guns  greeted  my  ears  in  this  town,  which  I  shall  always 
remenihcr  with  unpleasant  recollections,  in  spite  of  its  old- 
world  beauty  and  the  loveliness  of  the  scene  in  which  it 
is  set. 

Beauvais  lies  directly  between  Amiens  and  Paris,  and  it 
seemed  to  me  that  it  was  the  right  place  to  be  in  order  to 
get  into  touch  with  the  French  army  barring  the  way  to  the 
capital.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  seemed  to  be  the  wrong  place 
from  all  points  of  view. 

I  might  have  suspected  that  something  was  wrong  by  the 
strange  look  on  the  face  of  a  friendly  French  peasant  whom 
I  met  at  Goumay.  He  had  described  to  me  in  a  very  vivid 
way  the  disposition  of  the  French  troops  on  the  neighboring 
hills  who  had  disappeared  in  the  undulation  below  the  sky- 
line, but  when  I  mentioned  that  I  was  on  the  way  to  Beauvais 
he  suddenly  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  me  in  a  queer, 
startled  way  which  puzzled  me.  I  remembered  that  look  when 
I  began  to  approach  the  town.  Down  the  road  came  small 
parties  of  peasants  with  fear  in  their  eyes.  Some  of  them 
were  in  farm  carts,  and  they  shouted  to  tired  horses  and  put 
them  to  a  stumbling  gallop.  Women  with  blanched  faces, 
carrying  children  in  their  arms,  trudged  along  the  dusty  high- 
way, and  it  was  clear  that  these  people  were  afraid  of  some- 
thing behind  them  —  something  in  the  direction  of  Beauvais. 
There  were  not  many  of  them,  and  when  they  had  passed  the 
countryside  was  strangely  and  uncannily  quiet.  There  was 
only  the  sound  of  singing  birds  above  the  fields,  which  were 
flooded  with  the  golden  light  of  the  setting  sun. 

Then  I  came  into  the  town.  An  intense  silence  brooded 
there,  among  the  narrow  little  streets  below  the  old  Norman 
church— pa  white  jewel  on  the  rising  ground  beyond.  AV 
most  every  house  was  shuttered,  with  blind  eyes,  but  here  ar 
there  I  looked  through  an  open  window  into  deserted  rooms. 
No  human  face  returned  my  gaze.     It  was  an  abandoned 


86  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

town,  emptied  of  all  its  people,  who  had  fled  with  fear  in 
their  eyes  like  those  peasants  along  the  roadway. 

But  presently  I  saw  a  human  form.  It  was  the  figure  of 
a  French  dragoon,  with  his  carbine  slung  behind  his  back. 
He  was  standing  by  the  side  of  a  number  of  gunpowder  bags. 
A  little  further  away  were  groups  of  soldiers  at  work  by  two 
bridges  —  one  over  a  stream  and  one  over  a  road.  They 
were  working  very  calmly,  and  I  could  see  what  they  were 
doing.  They  were  mining  the  bridges  to  blow  them  up  at  a 
given  signal.  As  I  went  further  I  saw  that  the  streets  were 
strewn  with  broken  bottles  and  littered  with  wire  entangle- 
ments, very  artfully  and  carefully  made. 

It  was  a  queer  experience.  It  was  obvious  that  there  was 
a  very  grim  business  being  done  in  Beauvais,  and  that  the 
soldiers  were  waiting  for  something  to  happen.  At  the  rail- 
way station  I  quickly  learned  the  truth.  The  Germans  were 
only  a  few  miles  away  in  great  force.  At  any  moment  they 
might  come  down,  smashing  everything  in  their  way,  and 
killing  every  human  being  along  that  road.  The  station- 
master,  a  brave  old  type,  and  one  or  two  porters,  had  deter- 
mined to  stay  on  to  the  last.  "  Nous  sommes  ici,"  he  said,  as 
though  the  Germans  would  have  to  reckon  with  him.  But 
he  was  emphatic  in  his  request  for  me  to  leave  Beauvais  if 
another  train  could  be  got  away,  which  was  very  uncertain. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  after  a  "  mauvais  quart  d'heure,"  I  was 
put  into  a  train  which  had  been  shunted  into  a  siding 
and  left  Beauvais  with  the  sound  of  the  German  guns  in  my 
ears. 

Sitting  in  darkness  and  shaken  like  peas  in  a  pod  because 
of  defective  brakes,  we  skirted  the  German  army,  and  by  a 
twist  in  the  line  almost  ran  into  the  enemy's  country,  but  we 
rushed  through  the  night  and  the  engine  driver  laughed  and 
put  his  oily  hand  up  to  the  salute  when  I  stepped  out  to  the 
platform  of  an  unknown  station. 

"  The  Germans  won't  have  us  for  dinner  after  all,"  he  said. 
"  It  was  a  little  risky  all  the  same !  " 


THE     WAY     OF     RETREAT  87 

The  station  was  Creil,  the  headquarters,  at  that  time,  of 
the  British  forces.  It  was  crowded  with  French  soldiers,  and 
they  were  soon  telling  me  their  experience  of  the  hard  fighting 
in  which  they  had  been  engaged. 

They  were  dirty,  unshaven,  dusty  from  head  to  foot, 
scorched  by  the  heat  of  the  August  sun,  in  tattered  uniforms, 
and  broken  boots.  But  they  were  beautiful  men  for  all  their 
dirt,  and  the  laughing  courage,  the  quiet  confidence,  the  un- 
bragging  simplicity  with  which  they  assured  me  that  the 
Germans  would  soon  be  caught  in  a  death-trap  and  sent  to 
their  destruction,  filled  me  with  an  admiration  which  I  cannot 
express  in  words.  All  the  odds  were  against  them ;  they  had 
fought  the  hardest  of  all  actions  along  the  way  of  retreat ; 
they  knew  and  told  me  that  the  enemy  were  fighting  at 
Senlis,  within  ten  miles  of  the  Parisian  fortifications,  but  they 
had  an  absolute  faith  in  the  ultimate  success  of  their  allied 
arms. 

One  of  the  French  soldiers  gave  me  his  diary  to  read.  In 
spite  of  his  dirty  uniform,  his  brown  unwashed  hands  and 
the  blond  unkempt  beard  which  disguised  fine  features  and  a 
delicate  mouth,  it  was  clear  to  see  that  he  was  a  man  of  good 
breeding  and  education. 

"  It  may  amuse  you,"  he  said.  "  You  see,  I  have  been 
busy  as  a  destroyer." 

It  was  a  record  of  the  blowing  up  of  bridges,  and  the 
words  had  been  scribbled  into  a  small  notebook  on  the  way  of 
retreat.  In  its  brevity  this  narrative  of  a  sergeant  of 
sappers  is  more  eloquent  than  long  descriptions  in  polished 
prose.  One  passage  in  it  seemed  to  me  almost  incredible: 
the  lines  which  tell  of  a  German  aviator  who  took  a  tiny  child 
with  him  on  his  mission  of  death.  But  a  man  like  this,  whose 
steel  blue  eyes  looked  into  mine  with  such  fine  frankness, 
would  not  put  a  lie  into  his  note-book,  and  I  believed  him. 
I  reproduce  the  document  now  as  I  copied  it  away  from  the 
gaze  of  a  French  officer  who  suspected  this  breach  of  regula- 
tions : 


88  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

August  25.  Started  for  St.  Quentin  and  arrived  in  evening.  Our 
section  set  out  again  next  morning  for  a  point  twelve  kilometers  behind, 
at  Montescourt-LezerouUes,  in  order  to  mine  a  bridge.  We  worked 
all  the  night  and  returned  to  St.  Quentin,  where  we  did  reconnaissance 
work. 

August  27.  Germans  signaled  and  station  of  St.  Quentin  evacuated. 
We  were  directed  to  maintain  order  among  the  crowd  who  wished  to 
go  away.  It  was  a  very  sad  spectacle,  all  the  women  and  children 
weeping  and  not  enough  trains  to  save  them. 

At  last  we  go  away,  and  destroy  line  and  station  of  Esiggny-le-Grand 
and  at  Montescourt,  where  we  destroy  bridge  already  mined. 

Arrive  in  afternoon  at  Tergnier.  Sleep  there,  and  set  out  on  after- 
noon of  28th  for  Chauny  and  Noyon. 

August  29  (morning).  We  receive  order  to  go  back  to  Tergnier,  the 
Germans  having  succeeded  in  piercing  British  lines.  We  pass  Montes- 
court, and  arri\e  Jussj',  where  the  bridge  of  the  canal  being  blown  up, 
we  hold  up  Germans  momentarily.  Coming  from  Tergnier,  we  were 
ordered  to  destroy  bridges  and  stations  of  the  line,  which  is  main  line 
to  Paris. 

Work  in  the  evening  to  sound  of  cannon.  It  is  pitiable  to  see  the 
miserable  people  on  the  road  with  their  boxes  and  children. 

In  the  afternoon  set  out  for  Chauny,  in  direction  of  Compi^gne, 
where  we  arrive  in  the  evening.  AU  along  the  line  were  scattered  the 
poor  people.  We  have  twelve  on  our  wagon,  and  let  them  eat  our  food. 
We  had  our  own  provisions,  and  we  gave  them  to  these  people. 

August  30  (Sunday).  Stationed  at  Compi^gne  awaiting  orders.  One 
hears  more  clearly  the  sound  of  the  cannon.  After  the  news  this  morn- 
ing I  write  a  line.  It  appears  that  the  Germans  have  been  destroyed  at 
St.   Quentin. 

To-day  we  have  assisted  at  a  duel  between  a  biplane  and  an  aero- 
plane. I  had  nearest  me  the  German  aeroplane  which  fell  in  the 
English  lines.  The  officer  in  charge  with  it  had  with  him  a  child  of 
six  years  old,  who  was  also  a  German.     They  were  only  wounded. 

After  St.  Quentin  were  with  the  English  troops  under  the  orders  of 
the  English  Headquarters  Staff. 

The  rumors  which  tell  of  German  defeats  must  be  false,  because  the 
English  troops  retire,  and  we  evacuate  Longuart,  where  we  destroy  the 
station  and  the  railway  lines. 

The  retreat  of  the  British  army  —  it  is  amazing  to  think 
that  there  were  only  45,000  men  who  had  tried  to  stem  the 
German  avalanche  —  was  developing  into  a  run.  Only  some 
wild  fluke  of  chance  (the  pious  patriot  sees  God's  hand  at 
work,  while  the  cynic  sees  only  the  inefficiency  of  the  German 
Staff)  saved  it  from  becoming  a  bloody  rout.  It  is  too  soon 
even  now  to  write  the  details  of  it.     Only  when  scores  of 


THE     WAY     OF     RETREAT  89 

officers  have  written  their  reminiscences  shall  we  have  the  full 
story  of  those  last  days  of  August,  when  a  little  army  which 
was  exhausted  after  many  battles  staggered  hard  away  from 
the  menace  of  enormous  odds  seeking  to  envelop  it.  It  was 
called  a  "  retirement  in  good  order."  It  was  hardly  that 
when  the  commander-in-chief  had  to  make  a  hurried  flight 
with  a  mounted  escort,  when  the  adjutant-general's  depart- 
ment, busy  in  the  chateau  of  a  French  village,  suddenly 
awakened  to  the  knowledge  that  it  had  been  forgotten  and  left 
behind  (I  heard  a  personal  story  of  the  escape  that  followed 
the  awakening)  and  when  companies,  battalions,  and  regi- 
ments lost  touch  with  each  other,  were  bewildered  in  dark 
woods  and  unknown  roads,  and  were  shelled  unexpectedly  by 
an  enemy  of  whose  whereabouts  they  had  now  no  definite 
knowledge.  The  German  net  of  iron  was  drawing  tighter. 
In  a  few  hours  it  might  close  round  and  make  escape  impos- 
sible. General  Allenby's  division  of  cavalry  had  a  gallop  for 
life,  when  the  outposts  came  in  with  reports  of  a  great 
encircling  movement  of  German  horse,  so  that  there  was  not  a 
moment  to  lose  if  a  great  disaster  were  to  be  averted.  It 
was  Allenby  himself  who  led  his  retreat  at  the  head  of  his 
division  by  the  side  of  a  French  guide  carrying  a  lantern. 
For  twenty  miles  our  cavalry  urged  on  their  tired  horses 
through  the  night,  and  along  the  sides  of  the  roads  came  a 
struggling  mass  of  automobiles,  motor-cycles,  and  motor- 
wagons,  carrying  engineers,  telegraphists  and  men  of  the 
Army  Service  Corps.  Ambulances  crammed  with  wounded 
who  had  been  picked  up  hurriedly  from  the  churches  and 
barns  which  had  been  used  as  hospitals,  joined  the  stampede, 
and  for  many  poor  lads  whose  heads  had  been  broken  by 
the  German  shells  and  whose  flesh  was  on  fire  with  frightful 
wounds,  this  night-ride  was  a  highway  of  torture  which  ended 
in  eternal  rest.  All  the  way  the  cavalry  and  the  convoys  were 
followed  by  the  enemy  and  there  were  moments  when  it  seemed 
inevitable  that  the  strength  of  the  horses  would  give  out  and 
that  the  retreating  force  would  be  surrounded.     But  as  we 


90  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

know  now,  the  enemy  was  exhausted  also.  Their  pursuit  was 
a  chase  by  blown  horses  and  puffed  men.  They  called  a  halt 
and  breathed  heavily,  at  the  very  time  when  a  last  gallop  and 
a  hard  fight  would  have  given  them  their  prize  —  the  flower  of 
the  British  army. 

On  that  last  stage  of  the  retreat  we  lost  less  men  than  any 
text-book  of  war  would  have  given  as  a  credible  number  in 
such  conditions.  Many  who  were  wounded  as  they  tramped 
through  woods  splintered  by  bursting  shells  and  ripped  with 
bullets,  bandaged  themselves  as  best  they  could  and  limped  on, 
or  were  carried  by  loyal  comrades  who  would  not  leave  a  pal 
in  the  lurch.  Others  who  lost  their  way  or  lay  down  in  sheer 
exhaustion,  cursing  the  Germans  and  not  caring  if  they  came, 
straggled  back  later  —  weeks  later  —  by  devious  routes  to 
Rouen  or  Paris,  after  a  wandering  life  in  French  villages, 
where  the  peasants  fed  them  and  nursed  them  so  that  they 
were  in  no  hurry  to  leave.  It  was  the  time  when  the  tempta- 
tion to  desert  seized  men  with  a  devilish  attraction.  They  had 
escaped  from  such  hells  at  Charleroi  and  Cambrai  and  Le 
Cateau.  Boys  who  had  never  heard  the  roar  of  guns  before 
except  in  mimic  warfare  had  crouched  and  cowered  beneath  a 
tempest  of  shells,  waiting,  terrified,  for  death.  Death  had 
not  touched  them.  By  some  miracle  they  had  dodged  it, 
with  dead  men  horribly  mutilated  on  either  side  of  them,  so 
that  blood  had  slopped  about  their  feet  and  they  had  jerked 
back  from  shapeless  masses  of  flesh  —  of  men  or  horses  — 
sick  with  the  stench  of  it,  cold  with  the  horror  of  it.  Was  it 
any  wonder  that  some  of  these  young  men  who  had  laughed  on 
the  way  to  Waterloo  Station,  and  held  their  heads  high  in  the 
admiring  gaze  of  London  crowds,  sure  of  their  own  heroism, 
slunk  now  in  the  backyards  of  French  farmhouses,  hid  behind 
hedges  when  men  in  khaki  passed,  and  told  wild,  incoherent 
tales,  when  cornered  at  last  by  some  cold-eyed  ofiicer  in  some 
town  of  France  to  which  they  had  blundered?  It  was  the 
coward's  chance,  and  I  for  one  can  hardly  bring  myself  to 
blame  the  poor  devil  I  met  one  day  in  Rouen,  stuttering  out 


THE     WAY     OF     RETREAT  91 

lies  to  save  his  skin,  or  the  two  gunners,  disguised  in  civil 
clothes,  who  begged  from  me  near  Amiens,  or  any  of  the  half- 
starved  stragglers  who  had  "  lost  "  their  regiments  and  did 
not  go  to  find  them.  Some  of  them  were  shot  and  deserved 
their  fate,  according  to  the  rules  of  war  and  the  stern  justice 
of  men  who  know  no  fear.  But  in  this  war  there  are  not 
many  men  who  have  not  known  moments  of  cold  terror,  when 
all  their  pride  of  manhood  oozed  away  and  left  them  cowards, 
sick  with  horror  at  all  the  frightfulness.  Out  of  such  knowl- 
edge pity  comes. 

It  was  pity  and  a  sense  of  impending  tragedy  which  took 
hold  of  me  in  Creil  and  on  the  way  to  Paris  when  I  was 
confronted  with  the  confusion  of  the  British  retreat,  and, 
what  seemed  its  inevitable  consequences,  the  siege  and  fall  of 
the  French  capital. 

I  reached  Paris  in  the  middle  of  the  night  on  September  2 
and  saw  extraordinary  scenes.  It  had  become  kno\Nii  during 
the  day  that  German  outposts  had  reached  Senlis  and 
Chantilly,  and  that  Paris  was  no  longer  the  seat  of  Govern- 
ment. Quietly  and  without  a  word  of  warning  the  French 
Ministry  had  stolen  away,  after  a  Cabinet  meeting  at  which 
there  had  been  both  rage  and  tears,  and  after  a  frantic  pack- 
ing up  of  papers  in  government  offices.  This  abandonment 
came  as  a  paralyzing  shock  to  the  citizens  of  Paris  and  was 
an  outward  and  visible  sign  that  the  worst  thing  might  hap- 
pen —  a  new  siege  of  Paris,  with  greater  guns  than  those 
which  girdled  it  in  the  terrible  year. 

A  rumor  had  come  that  the  people  were  to  be  given  five 
•days'  notice  to  leave  their  houses  within  the  zone  of  fortifica- 
tions, and  to  add  to  the  menace  of  impending  horrors  an  aero- 
plane had  dropped  bombs  upon  the  Gare  de  I'Est  that  after- 
jioon.  There  was  a  wild  rush  to  get  awa}^  from  the  capital, 
and  the  railway  stations  were  great  camps  of  fugitives,  in 
which  the  richest  and  the  poorest  citizens  were  mingled,  with 
their  women  and  children.  The  tragedy  deepened  when  it 
was  heard  that  most  of  the  lines  to  the  coast  had  been  cut  and 


93  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

that  the  only  remaining  line  of  Dieppe  would  probably  be 
destroyed  during  the  next  few  hours.  From  the  crowds  which 
had  been  waiting  all  day  for  a  chance  to  get  the  guichets  in 
the  rear  of  other  and  greater  crowds,  there  rose  a  murmur 
which  seemed  to  me  like  a  great  sigh  from  stricken  hearts. 
There  were  many  old  men  and  women  there  who  knew  what 
a  siege  of  Paris  meant.  To  younger  people  they  told  the  tale 
of  it  now  —  the  old  familiar  tale  —  with  shaking  heads  and 
trembling  forefingers.  "  Starvation !  "  "  We  ate  rats,  if 
we  were  lucky."  "  They  would  not  hesitate  to  smash  up 
Notre  Dame."  "  It  is  not  for  my  sake  I  would  go.  But  the 
little  ones  !     Those  poor  innocents !  " 

They  did  not  make  much  noise  in  those  crowds.  There  was 
no  loud  sound  of  panic.  No  woman's  voice  shrieked  or  wailed 
above  the  murmurs  of  voices.  There  was  no  fighting,  for  the 
station  platforms  barred  against  them  all.  A  few  women 
wept  quietly,  mopping  their  eyes.  Perhaps  they  wept  for 
sheer  weariness  after  sitting  encamped  for  hours  on  their  bag- 
gage. Most  of  the  men  had  a  haggard  look  and  kept  repeat- 
ing the  stale  old  word,  "  Incroyable !  "  in  a  dazed  and  dismal 
way.  Sadness  as  well  as  fear  was  revealed  in  the  spirit  of 
those  fugitives,  a  sadness  that  Paris,  Paris  the  beautiful, 
should  be  in  danger  of  destruction,  and  that  all  her  hopes  of 
victory  had  ended  in  this  defeat. 

Among  all  these  civilians  were  soldiers  of  many  regiments 
and  of  two  nations  —  Turcos  and  Zouaves,  chasseurs  and 
infantrj',  regulars  and  Highland  British.  Many  of  these 
were  wounded  and  lay  on  the  floor  among  the  crying  babies 
and  weary-eyed  women.  Many  of  them  were  drinking  and 
drunk.  They  clinked  glasses  and  pledged  each  other  in 
French  and  English  and  broadest  Scotch,  with  a  "  Hell  to  the 
Kaiser "  and  "  a  bas  Guillaume ! "  A  Tommy  with  the 
accent  of  the  Fulham  Road  stood  on  a  chair,  steadying  him- 
self by  a  firm  grasp  on  the  shoulder  of  a  French  dragon, 
and  made  an  incoherent  speech  in  which  he  reviled  the  French 
troops  as  dirty  dogs  who  ran  away  like  mongrels,  vowed  that 


THE     WAY     OF     RETREAT  93 

he  would  never  have  left  England  for  such  a  bloody  game  if  he 
had  known  the  rights  of  it,  and  hoped  Kitchener  would  break 
his  blooming  neck  down  the  area  of  Buckingham  Palace. 
The  French  soldier  greeted  these  sentiments  with  a  "  Bravo, 
mon  vieux !  "  not  understanding  a  word  of  them,  and  the 
drunkard  swayed  and  fell  across  the  marble-topped  table, 
amid  a  crash  of  broken  glass. 

"  Serve  him  damn  well  right !  "  said  a  sergeant  to  whom  I 
had  been  talking.  Like  many  other  English  soldiers  here 
who  had  been  fighting  for  ten  days  in  retreat,  he  had  kept  his 
head,  and  his  heart. 

"  We've  been  at  it  night  and  day,"  he  said.  "  The  only 
rest  from  fighting  was  when  we  were  marching  with  the  beg- 
gars after  us." 

He  spoke  of  the  German  army  as  "  a  blighted  nation  on  the 
move." 

"  You  can't  mow  that  down.  We  kill  'em  and  kill  'em, 
and  still  they  come  on.  They  seem  to  have  an  endless  line 
of  fresh  men.  Directly  we  check  'em  in  one  attack  a  fresh 
attack  develops.  It's  impossible  to  hold  up  such  a  mass  of 
men.     Can't  be  done,  nohow !  " 

This  man,  severely  wounded,  was  so  much  master  of  himself, 
so  strong  in  common  sense  that  he  was  able  to  get  the  right 
perspective  about  the  general  situation. 

"  It's  not  right  to  say  we've  met  with  disaster,"  he  re- 
marked. "  Truth's  truth.  We've  suffered  pretty  badly  — 
perhaps  twelve  per  cent,  of  a  battalion  knocked  out.  But 
what's  that  ?  You've  got  to  expect  it  nowadays.  'Tain't  a 
picnic.  Besides,  what  if  a  battalion  was  cut  up  —  wiped 
clean  out,  if  you  like?  That  don't  mean  defeat.  While  one 
regiment   suffered   another  got   off  light." 

And  by  the  words  of  that  sergeant  of  the  Essex  Regiment  I 
was  helped  to  see  the  tinith  of  what  had  happened.  He  took 
the  same  view  as  many  officers  and  men  to  whom  I  had  spoken, 
and  by  weighing  up  the  evidence,  in  the  light  of  all  that  I  had 
seen  and  heard,  and  with  the  assistance  of  my  friend  the 


^4  TH^     SOUL    OF    THE    WaU 

Philosopher  —  whose  wisdom  shone  bright  after  a  glass  of 
Dubonnet  and  the  arsenic  pill  which  lifted  him  out  of  the 
gulfs  of  the  black  devil  doubt  to  heights  of  splendid  optimism 
based  upon  unerring  logic  —  I  was  able  to  send  a  despatch 
to  England  which  cheered  it  after  a  day  of  anguish. 

Because  I  also  was  eager  to  reach  the  coast  —  not  to 
escape  from  the  advancing  Germans,  for  I  had  determined 
that  I  would  do  desperate  things  to  get  back  for  the  siege  of 
Paris,  if  histor}-  had  to  be  written  that  way  —  but  because  I 
must  find  a  boat  to  carry  a  despatch  across  the  Channel,  I 
waited  with  the  crowd  of  fugitives,  struggled  with  them  for  a 
seat  in  the  train  which  left  at  dawn,  and  endured  another  of 
those  journeys  when  discomfort  mocked  at  sleep,  until  sheer 
exhaustion  made  one  doze  for  a  moment  of  unconsciousness 
from  which  one  awakened  with  a  cricked  neck  and  cramped 
limbs,  to  a  reality  of  tragic  things. 

We  went  by  a  tortuous  route,  round  Paris  towards  the 
west,  and  at  every  station  the  carriages  were  besieged  by 
people  trying  to  escape. 

"  Pour  I'amour  de  Dieu,  laissez-moi  entrer !  " 

"  J'ai  trois  enfants,  messieurs  !     Ayez  un  peu  de  pitie  !  '* 

"  'Cre  nom  de  Dieu,  c'est  le  dernier  train!  Et  j'ai  peur 
pour  les  petits.  Nous  sommes  tous  dans  le  meme  cas, 
n'est-ce-pas?  " 

But  entreaties,  piteous  words,  the  exhibition  of  frightened 
children  and  wailing  babes  could  not  make  a  place  in  car- 
riages already  packed  to  bursting-point.  It  was  impossible 
to  get  one  more  human  being  inside. 

"  C'est  impossible !  C'est  absolument  impossible !  Re- 
gardez !     On  ne  peut  pas  f aire  plus  de  place,  Madame !  " 

I  was  tempted  sometimes  to  yield  up  my  place.  It 
seemed  a  coward  thing  to  sit  there  jammed  between  two 
peasants  while  a  white-faced  woman  with  a  child  in  her  arms 
begged  for  a  little  pity  and  —  a  little  room.  But  I  had  a 
message  for  the  English  people.  They,  too,  were  in  anguish 
because  the  enemy  had  come  so  close  to  Paris  in  pursuit  of 


THE     WAY     OF     RETREAT  95 

a  little  army  which  seemed  to  have  been  wiped  out  behind  the 
screen  of  secrecy  through  which  only  vague  and  awful  rumors 
came.  I  sat  still,  shamefaced,  scribbling  my  message  hour 
after  hour,  not  daring  to  look  in  the  face  of  those  women  who 
turned  away  in  a  kind  of  sullen  sadness  after  their  pitiful 
entreaties. 

Enormous  herds  of  cattle  were  being  driven  into  Paris. 
For  miles  the  roads  were  thronged  with  them,  and  down 
other  roads  away  from  Paris  families  were  trekking  to  far 
fields,  with  their  household  goods  piled  into  bullock  carts, 
pony  carts,  and  wheelbarrows. 

At  Pontoise  there  was  another  shock,  for  people  whose 
nerves  were  frayed  by  fright.  Two  batteries  of  artillery 
were  stationed  by  the  line,  and  a  regiment  of  infantry  was 
hiding  in  the  hollows  of  the  grass  slopes.  Out  of  a  night- 
mare dream  not  more  fantastic  than  my  waking  hours  so  that 
there  seemed  no  dividing  line  between  illusion  and  reality,  I 
opened  my  eyes  to  see  those  faces  in  the  grass,  bronzed 
bearded  faces  with  anxious  eyes,  below  a  hedge  of  rifle  barrels 
slanted  towards  the  north.  The  Philosopher  had  jerked  out 
of  slumber  into  a  wakefulness  like  mine.  He  rubbed  his  eyes 
and  then  sat  bolt  upright,  with  a  tense  searching  look,  as 
though  trying  to  pierce  to  the  truth  of  things  by  a  violence 
of  staring. 

"  It  doesn't  look  good,"  he  said.  "  Those  chaps  in  the 
grass  seem  to  expect  something  —  something  nasty  !  " 

The  Strategist  had  a  map  on  his  knees,  which  overlapped 
his  fellow  passenger's  on  either  side. 

"  If  the  beggars  cut  the  line  here  it  closes  the  way  of 
escape  from  Paris.  It  would  be  good  business  from  their 
point  of  view." 

I  was  sorry  my  message  to  the  English  people  might  never 
be  read  by  them.  Perhaps  after  all  they  would  get  on  very 
well  without  it,  and  my  paper  would  appoint  another  corre- 
spondent to  succeed  a  man  swallowed  up  somewhere  inside 
the  German  lines.     It  would  be  a  queer  adventure.     I  con- 


96  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

jurcd  up  an  imaginary  conversation  in  bad  German  with  an 
officer  in  a  pointed  casque.  Undoubtedly  he  would  have  the 
best  of  the  argument.  There  would  be  a  little  white  wall, 
perhaps.  .  .  . 

One  of  the  enemy's  aeroplanes  flew  above  our  heads, 
circled  round  and  then  disappeared.  It  dropped  no  bombs 
and  was  satisfied  with  its  reconnaissance.  The  whistle  of  the 
train  shrieked  out,  and  there  was  a  cheer  from  the  French 
gunners  as  we  went  away  to  safety,  leaving  them  behind  at 
the  post  of  peril. 

After  all  my  message  went  to  Fleet  Street  and  filled  a 
number  of  columns,  read  over  the  coffee  cups  by  a  number  of 
English  families,  who  said  perhaps :  "  I  wonder  if  he  really 
knows  anything,  or  if  it  is  all  made  up.  Those  newspaper 
men.  .  .  ." 

Those  newspaper  men  did  not  get  much  rest  in  their  quest 
for  truth,  not  caring  much,  if  the  truth  may  be  told,  for  what 
the  English  public  chose  to  think  or  not  to  think,  but  eager  to 
see  more  of  the  great  drama  and  to  plunge  again  into  its 
amazing  vortex. 

Almost  before  the  fugitives  who  had  come  with  us  had 
found  time  to  smell  the  sea  we  were  back  again  along  the 
road  to  Paris,  fretful  to  be  there  before  it  was  closed  by  a 
hostile  army  and  a  ring  of  fire. 

There  are  people  who  say  that  Paris  showed  no  sign  of 
panic  when  the  Germans  were  at  their  gates.  ..."  The 
calmness  with  which  Paris  awaits  the  siege  is  amazing,"  wrote 
one  of  my  confreres,  and  he  added  this  phrase:  "  There  is 
no  sign  of  panic."  He  was  right  if  by  panic  one  meant  a 
noisy  fear,  of  crowds  rushing  wildly  about  tearing  out  hand- 
fuls  of  their  hair,  and  shrieking  in  a  delirium  of  terror.  No, 
there  was  no  clamor  of  despair  in  Paris  when  the  enemy  came 
close  to  its  gates.  But  if  by  panic  one  may  mean  a  great 
fear  spreading  rapidly  among  great  multitudes  of  people, 
infectious  as  a  fell  disease  so  that  men  ordinarily  brave  felt 


THE     WAY     QF     RETREAT  97 

gripped  with  a  sudden  chill  at  the  heart,  and  searched  des- 
perately for  a  way  of  escape  from  the  advancing  peril,  then 
Paris  was  panic-stricken. 

I  have  written  many  words  about  the  courage  of  Paris, 
courage  as  fine  and  noble  as  anything  in  history,  and  in  a 
later  chapter  of  this  book  I  hope  to  reveal  the  strength  as 
well  as  the  weakness  in  the  soul  of  Paris.  But  if  there  is  any 
truth  in  my  pen  it  must  describe  that  exodus  by  one  and  a 
half  millions  of  people  who,  under  the  impulse  of  a  great  fear 
—  what  else  was  it  ?  —  fled  by  any  means  and  any  road  from 
the  capital  which  they  love  better  than  any  city  in  the  world 
because  their  homes  are  there  and  their  pride  and  all  that  has 
given  beauty  to  their  ideals. 

In  those  few  days  before  the  menace  passed  the  railway 
stations  were  stormed  and  stormed  again,  throughout  the 
day  and  night,  by  enormous  crowds  such  as  I  had  seen  on 
that  night  of  September  2.  Because  so  many  bridges  had 
been  blown  up  and  so  many  lines  cut  on  the  way  to  Calais  and 
Boulogne,  in  order  to  hamper  the  enemy's  advance,  and  be- 
cause what  had  remained  were  being  used  for  the  transport  of 
troops,  it  was  utterly  impossible  to  provide  trains  for  these 
people.  Southwards  the  way  was  easier,  though  from  that 
direction  also  regiments  of  French  soldiers  were  being  rushed 
up  to  the  danger  zone.  The  railway  officials  under  the 
pressure  of  this  tremendous  strain,  did  their  best  to  hurl  out 
the  population  of  Paris,  somehow  and  anyhow.  For  military 
reasons  the  need  was  urgent.  The  less  mouths  to  feed  the 
better  in  a  besieged  city.  So  when  all  the  passenger  trains 
had  been  used,  cattle  trucks  were  put  together  and  into  them, 
thanking  God,  tumbled  fine  ladies  of  France,  careless  of  the 
filth  which  stained  their  silk  frocks,  and  rich  Americans  who 
had  traveled  far  to  Paris  for  the  sake  of  safety,  who  offered 
great  bribes  to  any  man  who  would  yield  his  place  between 
wooden  boards  for  a  way  out  again,  and  bourgeois  families 
who  had  shut  up  shops  from  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  to  the  Place 


98  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

Pigalle,  heedless  for  once  of  loss  or  ruin,  but  desperate  to 
get  beyond  the  range  of  German  shells  and  the  horrors  of  a 
beleaguered  city. 

There  were  tragic  individuals  in  these  crowds.  I  could 
only  guess  at  some  of  their  stories  as  they  were  written  in  lines 
of  pain  about  the  eyes  and  mouths  of  poor  old  spinsters  such 
as  Balzac  met  hiding  their  misery  in  backstairs  flats  of  Paris 
tenements  —  they  came  blinking  out  into  the  fierce  sunlight 
of  the  Paris  streets  like  captive  creatures  let  loose  by  an 
earthquake  —  and  of  young  students  who  had  eschewed  de- 
light and  lived  laborious  days  for  knowledge  and  art  which 
had  been  overthrown  by  war's  brutality.  All  classes  and 
types  of  life  in  Paris  were  mixed  up  in  this  retreat,  and 
among  them  were  men  I  knew,  so  that  I  needed  no  guesswork 
for  their  stories.  For  weeks  some  of  them  had  been  working 
under  nervous  pressure,  keeping  "  a  stiff  upper  lip,"  as  it  is 
called,  to  all  rumors  of  impending  tragedy.  But  the  con- 
tagion of  fear  had  caught  them  in  a  secret  way,  and  suddenly 
their  nerves  had  snapped,  and  they  too  had  abandoned 
courage  and  ideals  of  duty,  slinking,  as  though  afraid  of  day- 
light, to  stations  more  closely  sieged  than  Paris  would  be. 
Pitiful  wrecks  of  men,  and  victims  of  this  ruthless  war  in 
which  the  non-combatants  have  suffered  even  more  sometimes 
than  the  fighting  men.  The  neuroticism  of  the  age  was 
exaggerated  by  writing  men  —  we  have  seen  the  spirit  of  the 
old  blood  strong  and  keen  —  but  neurasthenia  is  not  a  myth, 
and  God  knows  it  was  found  out  and  made  a  torture  to  many 
men  and  women  in  the  city  of  Paris,  when  the  Great  Fear 
came  —  closing  in  with  a  narrowing  circle  until  it  seemed  to 
clutch  at  the  throats  of  those  miserable  beings. 

There  were  thousands  and  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
people  who  would  not  wait  for  the  trains.  Along  the  south- 
em  road  which  goes  down  to  Tours  there  were  sixty  un- 
broken miles  of  them.  They  went  in  every  kind  of  vehicle  — 
taxicabs  for  which  rich  people  had  paid  fabulous  prices, 
motor-cars    which    had    escaped    the    military    requisition. 


THE     WAY     OF     RETREAT  99 

farmers'  carts  laden  with  several  families  and  piles  of  liouse- 
hold  goods,  shop  carts  drawn  by  horses  already  tired  to  the 
point  of  death,  because  of  the  weight  of  the  people  who  had 
crowded  behind,  pony  traps,  governess'  carts,  and  innumer- 
able cycles. 

But  for  the  most  part  the  people  were  on  foot,  and  they 
trudged  along,  bravely  at  first,  quite  gay,  some  of  them,  on 
the  first  stage  of  the  march ;  mothers  carrying  their  babies, 
fathers  hoisting  children  to  their  shoulders,  families  stepping 
out  together.  They  were  of  all  classes,  rank  and  fortune 
being  annihilated  by  this  common  tragedy.  Elegant  women, 
whose  beauty  is  known  in  the  Paris  salons,  whose  frivolity 
perhaps  in  the  past  was  the  main  purpose  of  their  lives,  were 
now  on  a  level  with  the  peasant  mothers  of  the  French 
suburbs,  and  with  the  midencttes  of  Montmartre  —  and  their 
courage  did  not  fail  them  so  quickly. 

It  was  a  tragic  road.  At  every  mile  of  it  there  were 
people  who  had  fainted  on  the  wayside,  and  poor  old  people 
who  could  go  no  further  but  sat  down  on  the  banks  below  the 
hedges,  weeping  silently  or  bidding  the  younger  ones  go  for- 
ward and  leave  them  to  their  fate. 

Young  women  who  had  stepped  out  so  jauntily  at  first 
were  footsore  and  lame,  so  that  they  limped  along  with  lines 
of  pain  about  their  lips  and  eyes.  Many  of  the  taxicabs, 
bought  at  great  prices,  and  many  of  the  motor-cars  had 
broken  down  and  had  been  abandoned  by  their  owners,  who 
had  decided  to  walk. 

Farmers'  carts  had  jolted  into  ditches  and  had  lost  their 
wheels.  Wheelbarrows,  too  heavy  to  trundle,  had  been  tilted 
up,  with  all  their  household  goods  spilt  into  the  roadway, 
and  the  children  had  been  carried  further,  until  at  last  dark- 
ness came,  and  their  only  shelter  was  a  haystack  in  a  field 
under  the  harvest  moon. 

I  entered  Paris  again  from  the  southwest,  after  crossing 
the  Seine  where  it  makes  a  loop  to  the  northwest  beyond  the 
forts  of  St.  Germain  and  St.  Denis.     The  way  seemed  opeR 


100  THE     SOUL     OF    THE     WAR 

to  the  enemy.  Always  obsessed  with  the  idea  that  the  Ger- 
mans would  come  from  the  east  —  the  almost  fatal  error  of 
the  French  General  Staff  —  Paris  had  been  girdled  with  forts 
on  that  side,  from  those  of  Ecouen  and  Montmorency  by  the 
distant  ramparts  of  Chelles  and  Champigny  to  those  of  Sucy 
and  Villeneuve  —  the  outer  lines  of  a  triple  cordon.  But  on 
the  western  side  there  was  next  to  nothing,  and  it  was  a  sign 
to  me  of  the  utter  unreadiness  of  France  that  now  at  the 
eleventh  hour  when  I  passed  thousands  of  men  were  digging 
trenches  in  the  roads  and  fields  with  frantic  haste,  and  throw- 
ing up  earthworks  along  the  banks  of  the  Seine.  Great  God ! 
that  such  work  should  not  have  been  done  weeks  before  and 
not  left  like  this  to  a  day  when  the  enemy's  guns  were 
rumbling  through  Creil  and  smashing  back  the  allied  armies 
in  retreat ! 

It  was  a  pitiful  thing  to  see  the  deserted  houses  of  the 
Paris  suburbs.  It  was  as  though  a  plague  had  killed  every 
human  being  save  those  who  had  fled  in  frantic  haste.  Those 
little  villas  on  the  riverside,  so  coquettish  in  their  prettiness, 
built  as  love  nests  and  summer  houses,  were  all  shuttered 
and  silent.  Roses  were  blowing  in  their  gardens,  full-blown 
because  no  woman's  hand  had  been  to  pick  them,  and  spilling 
their  petals  on  the  garden  paths.  The  creeper  was  crimson- 
ing on  the  walls  and  the  grass  plots  were  like  velvet  carpet- 
ing, so  soft  and  deeply  green.  But  there  were  signs  of 
disorder,  of  some  hurried  transmigration.  Packing-cases 
littered  the  trim  lawns  and  cardboard  boxes  had  been  flung 
about.  In  one  small  bower  I  saw  a  child's  perambulator, 
where  two  wax  dolls  sat  staring  up  at  the  abandoned  house. 
Their  faces  had  become  blotchy  in  the  dew  of  night,  and  their 
little  "  maman  "  with  her  pigtail  had  left  them  to  their  fate. 
In  another  garden  a  woman's  parasol  and  flower-trimmed  hat 
lay  on  a  rustic  seat  with  an  open  book  beside  them.  I  imag- 
ined a  lady  of  France  called  suddenly  away  from  an  old 
romance  of  false  sentiment  by  the  visit  of  grim  reality  —  the 


THE     WAY     OF     RETREAT  101 

first  sound  of  the  enemy's  guns,  faint  but  terrible  to  startled 
ears. 

"  Les  Allemands  sont  tout  pres  !  " 

Some  harsh  voice  had  broken  into  the  quietude  of  the 
garden  on  the  Seine,  and  the  open  book,  with  the  sunshade 
and  the  hat,  had  been  forgotten  in  the  flight. 

Yet  there  was  one  human  figure  here  on  the  banks  of  the 
Seine  reassuring  in  this  solitude  which  was  haunted  by  the 
shadow  of  fear.  It  was  a  fisherman.  A  middle-aged  man 
with  a  straw  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head  and  a  big  pair  of 
spectacles  on  the  end  of  his  nose,  he  held  out  his  long  rod 
with  a  steady  hand  and  waited  for  a  bite,  in  an  attitude  of 
supreme  indifference  to  Germans,  guns,  hatred,  tears,  and  all 
the  miserable  stupidities  of  people  who  do  not  fish.  He  was 
at  peace  with  the  world  on  this  day  of  splendor,  with  a  golden 
sun  and  a  blue  sky,  and  black  shadows  flung  across  the  water 
from  the  tree  trunks.  He  stood  there,  a  simple  fisherman, 
as  a  protest  against  the  failure  of  civilization  and  the  cow- 
ardice in  the  hearts  of  men.     I  lifted  my  hat  to  him. 

Close  to  Paris,  too,  in  little  market  gardens  and  poor 
plots  of  land,  women  stooped  over  their  cabbages,  and  old 
men  tended  the  fruits  of  the  earth.  On  one  patch  a  peasant 
girl  stood  with  her  hands  on  her  hips  staring  at  her  fowls, 
which  were  struggling  and  clucking  for  the  grain  she  had 
flung  down  to  them.  There  was  a  smile  about  her  lips.  She 
seemed  absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  the  feathered  crowd. 
Did  she  know  the  Germans  were  coming  to  Paris.''  If  so, 
she  was  not  afraid. 

How  quiet  it  was  in  the  great  city !  How  strangely  and 
deadly  quiet !  The  heels  of  my  two  companions,  and  my 
own,  made  a  click-clack  down  the  pavements,  as  though  we 
were  walking  through  silent  halls.  Could  this  be  Paris  — 
this  city  of  shuttered  shops  and  barred  windows  and  deserted 
avenues?  There  were  no  treasures  displayed  in  the  Rue  de 
la  Paix.     Not  a  diamond  glinted  behind  the  window  panes. 


102  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

Indeed,  there  were  no  windows  visible,  but  only  iron  sheeting, 
drawn  down  like  the  lids  of  dead  men's  eyes.  In  the  Avenue 
de  I'Opera  no  Teutonic  tout  approached  us  with  the  old 
familiar  words,  "  Want  a  guide,  sir? "  "  Lovely  ladies, 
sir !  "  The  lovely  ladies  had  gone.  The  guides  had  gone. 
Life  had  gone  out  of  Paris. 

It  was  early  in  the  morning,  and  we  were  faint  for  lack 
of  sleep  and  food. 

"  My  kingdom  for  a  carriage,"  said  the  Philosopher,  in  a 
voice  that  seemed  to  come  from  the  virgin  forests  of  the  Ma- 
deira, in  which  he  had  once  lost  hold  of  all  familiar  things  in 
life,  as  now  in  Paris. 

A  very  old  cab  crawled  into  view,  with  a  knock-kneed 
horse  which  staggered  aimlessly  about  the  empty  streets, 
and  with  an  old  "  cocher  "  who  looked  about  him  as  though 
doubtful  as  to  his  whereabouts  in  this  deserted  city. 

He  started  violently  when  we  hailed  him,  and  stared  at 
us  as  nightmare  creatures  in  a  bad  dream  after  an  absinthe 
orgy.  I  had  to  repeat  an  address  three  times  before  he 
understood. 

"  Hotel  St.  James.  .  .  .  ]&coutez  done,  mon  vieux !  " 

He  clacked  his  whip  with  an  awakening  to  life. 

"  Allez !  "  he  shouted  to  his  bag  of  bones. 

Our  arrival  at  the  Hotel  St.  James  was  a  sensation,  not 
without  alarm.  I  believe  the  concierge  and  his  wife  thought 
the  Germans  had  come  when  they  heard  the  outrageous  noise 
of  our  horse's  hoofs  thundering  into  the  awful  silence  of  their 
courtyard.  The  manager,  and  the  assistant  manager,  and 
the  head  waiter,  and  the  head  waiter's  wife,  and  the  chamber- 
maid, and  the  cook,  greeted  us  with  the  sui-prise  of  people 
who  behold  an  apparition. 

"  The  hotel  has  shut  up.  Everybody  has  fled !  We  are 
quite  alone  here  !  " 

I  was  glad  to  have  added  a  little  item  of  history  to  that 
old  mansion  where  the  Due  de  Noailles  lived,  where  Lafayette 
was  married,  and  where   Marie   Antoinette   saw  old  ghost 


THE     WAY     OF     RETREAT  103 

faces  —  the  dead  faces  of  laughing  girls  —  when  she  passed 
on  her  way  to  the  scaffold.  It  was  a  queer  incident  in  its 
story  when  three  English  journalists  opened  it  after  the 
great  flight  from  Paris. 

Early  that  morning,  after  a  snatch  of  sleep,  we  three 
friends  walked  up  the  Avenue  des  Champs  Elysees  and  back 
again  from  the  Arc  de  Triomphe.  The  autumn  foliage  was 
beginning  to  fall  and  so  wonderfully  quiet  was  the  scene  that 
almost  one  might  have  heard  a  leaf  rustle  to  the  ground. 
Not  a  child  scampered  under  the  trees  or  chased  a  comrade 
round  the  Petit  Guignol.  No  women  with  twinkling  needles 
sat  on  the  stone  seats.  No  black-haired  student  fondled  the 
hand  of  a  pretty  couturiere.  No  honest  bourgeois  with  a 
fat  stomach  walked  slowly  along  the  pathway  meditating 
upon  the  mystery  of  life  which  made  some  men  millionaires. 
Not  a  single  carriage  nor  any  kind  of  vehicle,  except  one 
solitary  bicycle,  came  down  the  road  where  on  normal  days 
there  is  a  crowd  of  light-wheeled  traffic. 

The  Philosopher  was  silent,  thinking  tremendous  things, 
with  his  sallow  face  transfigured  by  some  spiritual  emotion. 
It  was  when  we  passed  the  Palais  des  Beaux  Arts  that  he 
stood  still  and  raised  two  fingers  to  the  blue  sky,  like  a  priest 
blessing  a  kneeling  multitude. 

"  Thanks  be  to  the  Great  Power !  "  he  said,  with  the  solemn 
piety  of  an  infidel  who  knows  God  only  as  the  spirit  is  re- 
vealed on  lonely  waters  and  above  uprising  seas,  and  in  the 
life  of  flowers  and  beasts,  and  in  the  rare  pity  of  men. 

We  did  not  laugh  at  him.  Only  those  who  have  known 
Paris  and  loved  her  beauty  can  understand  the  thrill  that 
came  to  us  on  that  morning  in  September  when  we  had  ex- 
pected to  hear  the  roar  of  great  guns  around  her,  and  to  see 
the  beginning  of  a  ghastly  destruction.  Paris  was  still  safe ! 
By  some  kind  of  miracle  the  enemy  had  not  yet  touched  her 
beauty  nor  tramped  into  her  streets.  How  sharp  and  clear 
were  all  the  buildings  under  that  cloudless  sky !  Spears  of 
light   flashed   from   the   brazen-winged   horses    above   Alex- 


104  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

ander's  bridge,  and  the  dome  of  the  Invalides  was  a  golden 
crown  above  a  snow-white  palace.  The  Seine  poured  in  a 
burnished  stream  beneath  all  the  bridges,  and  far  away  be- 
yond the  houses  and  the  island  trees  and  all  the  picture  of 
Paris  etched  by  a  master  hand  through  long  centuries  of 
time  the  towers  of  Notre  Dame  were  faintly  penciled  in  the 
blue  screen  of  sky.  Oh,  fair  dream-city,  in  which  the  highest 
passions  of  the  spirit  have  found  a  dwelling-place  —  with 
the  rankest  weeds  of  vice  —  in  which  so  many  human  hearts 
have  suffered  and  strived  and  starved  for  beauty's  sake,  in 
which  always  there  have  lived  laughter  and  agony  and  tears, 
where  Liberty  was  cherished  as  well  as  murdered,  and  where 
Love  has  redeemed  a  thousand  crimes,  I,  though  an  English- 
man, found  tears  in  my  eyes  because  on  that  day  of  history 
your  beauty  was  still  unspoiled. 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  TURN  OF  THE  TIDE 

THE  Germans  were  balked  of  Paris.  Even  now,  look- 
ing back  on  those  days,  I  sometimes  wonder  why  they 
made  that  sudden  swerve  to  the  southeast,  missing 
their  great  objective.  It  was  for  Paris  that  they  had 
fought  their  way  westwards  and  southwards  through  an  in- 
cessant battlefield  from  Mons  and  Charleroi  to  St.  Quentin 
and  Amiens,  and  down  to  Creil  and  Compiegne,  flinging  away 
human  life  as  though  it  were  but  rubbish  for  the  death-pits. 
The  prize  of  Paris  —  Paris  the  great  and  beautiful  —  seemed 
to  be  within  their  grasp,  and  the  news  of  its  fall  would  come 
as  a  thunderstroke  of  fate  to  the  French  and  British  peo- 
ples, reverberating  eastwards  to  Russia  as  a  dread  proof  of 
German  power. 

As  I  have  said,  all  the  northwest  corner  of  France  was 
denuded  of  troops,  with  the  exception  of  some  poor  Terri- 
torials, ill-trained  and  ill-equipped,  and  never  meant  to  with- 
stand the  crush  of  Imperial  troops  advancing  in  hordes  with 
masses  of  artillery,  so  that  they  fled  like  panic-stricken  sheep. 
The  forts  of  Paris  on  the  western  side  would  not  have  held 
out  for  half  a  day  against  the  German  guns.  All  that  fever- 
ish activity  of  trench  work  was  but  a  pitiable  exhibition  of 
an  unprepared  defense.  The  enemy  would  have  swept  over 
them  like  a  rolling  tide.  The  little  British  army  was  still 
holding  together,  but  it  had  lost  heavily  and  was  winded 
after  its  rapid  retreat.  The  army  of  Paris  was  waiting  to 
fight  and  would  have  fought  to  the  death,  but  without  sup- 
port from  other  army  corps  still  a  day's  journey  distant,  its 

105 


106  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

peril  would  have  been  great,  and  if  the  enemy's  right  wing 
had  been  hurled  with  full  force  against  it  at  the  critical  mo- 
ment it  might  have  been  crushed  and  annihilated.  Von 
Kluck  had  twenty-four  hours  in  his  favor.  If  he  had  been 
swift  to  use  them  before  Joffre  could  have  hurried  up  his 
regiments  to  the  rescue,  German  boots  might  have  tramped 
down  through  the  Place  de  la  Republique  to  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde,  and  German  horses  might  have  been  stabled  in  the 
Palais  des  Beaux-Arts.  I  am  sure  of  that,  because  I  saw 
the  beginning  of  demoralization,  the  first  signs  of  an  enor- 
mous tragedy,  creeping  closer  to  an  expectant  city.  In  spite 
of  the  optimism  of  French  officers  and  men,  an  optimism  as 
strong  as  religious  faith,  I  believe  now,  searching  back  to 
facts,  that  it  was  not  justified  by  the  military  situation.  It 
was  justified  only  by  the  miracle  that  followed  faith.  Von 
Kluck  docs  not  seem  to  have  known  that  the  French  army 
was  in  desperate  need  of  those  tAventy-four  hours  which  he 
gave  them  by  his  hesitation.  If  he  had  come  straight  on  for 
Paris  with  the  same  rapidity  as  his  men  had  marched  in 
earlier  stages  and  wuth  the  same  resolve  to  smash  through  re- 
gardless of  cost,  the  city  would  have  been  his  and  France 
would  have  reeled  under  the  blow.  The  psychological  eff'ect 
of  the  capital  being  in  the  enemy's  hands  would  have  been 
worth  more  to  them  at  this  stage  of  the  war  than  the  an- 
nihilation of  an  army  corps.  It  would  have  been  a  moral 
debacle  for  the  French  people,  who  had  been  buoyed  up  with 
false  news  and  false  hopes  until  their  Government  had  fled 
to  Bordeaux,  realizing  the  gravity  of  the  peril.  The  Ter- 
rible Year  would  have  seemed  no  worse  than  this  swift  inva- 
sion of  Paris,  and  the  temperament  of  the  nation,  in  spite  of 
the  renewal  of  its  youth,  had  not  changed  enough  to  resist 
this  calamity  with  utter  stoicism.  I  know  the  arguments  of 
the  strategists,  who  point  out  that  Von  Kluck  could  not  af- 
ford to  undertake  the  risk  of  entering  Paris  while  an  unde- 
feated army  remained  on  his  flank.  They  are  obvious  argu- 
ments, thoroughly  sound  to  men  who  play  for  safety,  but  all 


THE     TURN     OF     THE     TIDE        lOT 

records  of  great  captains  of  war  prove  that  at  a  decisive 
moment  they  abandon  the  safe  and  obvious  game  for  a  mas- 
ter-stroke of  audacity,  counting  the  risks  and  taking  them, 
and  striking  terror  into  the  hearts  of  their  enemy  by  the 
very  shock  of  their  contempt  for  caution.  Von  Kluck  could 
have  entered  and  held  Paris  with  twenty  thousand  men. 
That  seems  to  me  beyond  dispute  by  any  one  who  knows  the 
facts.  With  the  mass  of  men  at  his  disposal  he  could  have 
driven  a  wedge  between  Paris  and  the  French  armies  of  the 
left  and  center,  and  any  attempt  on  their  part  to  pierce  his 
line  and  cut  his  communications  would  have  been  hampered 
by  the  deadly  peril  of  finding  themselves  outflanked  by  the 
German  center  swinging  down  from  the  north  in  a  western 
curve,  with  its  point  directed  also  upon  Paris.  The  whole 
aspect  of  the  war  would  have  been  changed,  and  there  would 
have  been  great  strategical  movements  perilous  to  both  sides, 
instead  of  the  siege  war  of  the  trenches  in  which  both  sides 
played  for  safety  and  established  for  many  months  a  position 
bordering  upon  stalemate. 

The  psychological  effect  upon  the  German  army  if  Paris 
had  been  taken  would  have  been  great  In  moral  value  to  them 
as  in  moral  loss  to  the  French.  Their  spirits  would  have 
been  exalted  as  much  as  the  French  spirits  would  have 
drooped,  and  even  in  modem  war  victory  is  secured  as  much 
by  temperamental  qualities  as  by  shell-fire  and  big  guns. 

The  Headquarters  Staff  of  the  German  army  decided 
otherwise.  Scared  by  the  possibility  of  having  their  left 
wing  smashed  back  to  the  west  between  Paris  and  the  sea, 
with  their  communications  cut,  they  swung  round  steadily 
to  the  southeast  and  drove  their  famous  wedge-like  forma- 
tion southwards,  with  the  purpose  of  dividing  the  allied 
forces  of  the  Avest  from  the  French  center.  The  exact  po- 
sition then  was  this:  Their  own  right  struck  down  to  the 
southeast  of  Paris,  through  Chateau  Thierry  to  La  Ferte- 
sous-Jouarre  and  beyond ;  and  another  strong  column  forced 
the  French  to  evacuate  Rlieims  and  fall  back  in  a  southwest- 


108  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

erly  direction.  It  was  not  without  skill,  this  sudden  change 
of  plan,  and  it  is  clear  that  the  German  Staff  believed  it  pos- 
sible to  defeat  the  French  center  and  left  center  and  then  to 
come  back  with  a  smashing  blow  against  the  army  of  Paris 
and  the  "  contemptible  "  British.  But  two  great  factors  in 
the  case  were  overlooked.  One  was  the  value  of  time,  and  the 
other  was  the  sudden  revival  in  the  spirit  of  the  French  army 
now  that  Paris  might  still  be  saved.  They  gave  time  —  no 
more  than  that  precious  twenty-four  hours  —  to  General 
Joffre  and  his  advisers  to  repair  by  one  supreme  and  splen- 
did effort  all  the  grievous  errors  of  the  war's  first  chapter. 
While  they  were  hesitating  and  changing  their  line  of  front, 
a  new  and  tremendous  activity  was  taking  place  on  the 
French  side,  and  Joffre,  by  a  real  stroke  of  genius  which 
proves  him  to  be  a  great  general  in  spite  of  the  first  mis- 
takes, for  which  he  was  perhaps  not  responsible,  prepared  a 
blow  which  was  to  strike  his  enemy  shrewdly. 

I  had  the  great  fortune  of  seeing  something  of  that  rush 
to  the  rescue  which  gave  hope  that  perhaps,  after  all,  the 
tragedy  which  had  seemed  so  inevitable  —  the  capture  of  the 
world's  finest  city  —  might  not  be  fulfilled. 

This  great  movement  was  directed  from  the  west,  the 
south,  and  the  east,  and  continued  without  pause  by  day  and 
night. 

In  stations  about  Paris  I  saw  regiment  after  regiment  en- 
training —  men  from  the  southern  provinces  speaking  the 
patois  of  the  south,  men  from  the  eastern  departments  whom 
I  had  seen  a  month  before,  at  the  beginning  of  the  war,  at 
Chalons,  and  Epernay  and  Nancy,  and  men  from  the  south- 
west and  center  of  France  in  the  garrisons  along  the  Loire. 

They  were  all  in  splendid  spirits,  strangely  undaunted  by 
the  rapidity  of  the  German  advance.  "  Fear  nothing,  my 
little  one,"  said  a  dirty  unshaven  gentleman  with  the  laugh- 
ing eyes  of  d'Artagnan,  "  we  shall  bite  their  heads  off. 
These  brutal  '  Boches  '  are  going  to  put  themselves  in  a  veri- 
table death-trap.     We  shall  have  them  at  last." 


THE     TURN     OF     THE     TIDE        109 

The  railway  carriages  were  garlanded  with  flowers  of  the 
fields.  The  men  wore  posies  in  their  kepis.  In  white  chalk 
they  had  scrawled  legends  upon  the  cattle-trucks  in  which 
they  traveled.  "  A  mort  Guillaume !  "  "  Vive  la  Gloire  !  " 
"  Les  Fran9ais  ne  se  rendent  jamais!"  Many  of  them  had 
fought  at  Longwy  and  along  the  heights  of  the  Vosges.  The 
youngest  of  them  had  bristling  beards.  Their  blue  coats 
with  the  turned-back  flaps  were  war-worn  and  flaked  with  the 
dust  of  long  marches.  Their  red  trousers  were  sloppy  and 
stained. 

But  they  had  not  forgotten  how  to  laugh,  and  the  gal- 
lantry of  their  spirits  was  good  to  see.  A  friend  of  mine 
was  not  ashamed  to  say  that  he  had  tears  at  least  as  high  as 
his  throat  when  he  stood  among  them  and  clasped  some  of 
those  brown  hands.  There  was  a  thrill  not  to  be  recaptured 
in  the  emotion  of  those  early  days  of  war.  Afterwards  the 
monotony  of  it  all  sat  heavily  upon  one's  soul. 

They  were  very  proud,  those  French  soldiers,  of  fighting 
side  by  side  with  their  old  foes  the  British,  now  after  long 
centuries  of  strife,  from  Edward  the  Black  Prince  to  Welling- 
ton, their  brothers-in-arms  upon  the  battlefields;  and  be- 
cause I  am  English  they  offered  me  their  cigarettes  and  made 
me  one  of  them. 

In  modern  war  it  is  only  masses  of  men  that  matter,  moved 
by  a  common  obedience  at  the  dictation  of  mysterious  far-off 
powers,  and  I  thanked  Heaven  that  masses  of  men  were  on 
the  move,  rapidly,  in  vast  numbers,  and  in  the  right  direc- 
tion —  to  support  the  French  lines  which  had  fallen  back 
from  Amiens  a  few  hours  before  I  left  that  town,  whom  I  had 
followed  in  their  retirement  back  and  back,  with  the  British 
always  strengthening  their  left,  but  retiring  with  them  al- 
most to  the  outskirts  of  Paris  itself. 

Only  this  could  save  Paris  —  the  rapid  strengthening  of 
the  allied  front  by  enormous  reserves  strong  enough  to  hold 
back  the  arrow-shaped  battering-ram  of  the  enemy's  right. 
All  our  British  reserves  had  been  rushed  up  to  the  front 


110  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

from  Havre  and  Rouen.  There  was  only  one  deduction  to 
be  drawn  from  this  great  swift  movement:  the  French  and 
English  lines  had  been  supported  by  every  available  battalion 
to  save  Paris  from  its  menace  of  destruction,  to  meet  the 
weight  of  the  enemy's  metal  by  a  force  strong  enough  to  re- 
sist its  mass. 

One  of  the  most  dramatic  incidents  of  the  war  was  the 
transport  of  the  army  of  Paris  to  the  fighting  line  —  in 
taxicabs.  There  were  two  thousand  of  these  cabs  in  Paris, 
and  on  September  1  they  disappeared  as  though  the 
earth  had  swallowed  them,  just  as  the  earth  had  swallowed 
one  of  them  not  long  before  when  the  floods  had  sapped  the 
streets.  A  sudden  order  from  General  Gallieni,  the  Military 
Governor  of  Paris,  had  been  issued  to  each  driver,  who  im- 
mediately ignored  the  upraised  hands  of  would-be  passengers 
and  the  shouts  of  people  desperate  to  get  to  one  of  the  rail- 
way stations  with  household  goods  and  a  hope  of  escape. 
At  the  depots  the  drivers  knew  that  upon  the  strength  of 
their  tires  and  the  power  of  their  engines  depended  the 
safety  of  Paris  and  perhaps  the  life  of  France.  It  was  an 
extraordinary  incident  in  the  history  of  modern  war.  Five 
soldiers  were  loaded  into  each  cab,  four  inside  and  one  next 
to  the  driver,  with  their  rifles  and  kit  crammed  in  between 
them.  In  one  journey  twenty  thousand  men  were  taken  on 
the  road  to  Mcaux.  It  was  a  triumph  of  mobility,  and  when 
in  future  the  Parisian  is  tempted  to  curse  those  red  vehicles 
which  dash  about  the  streets  to  the  danger  of  all  pedestrians 
who  forget  that  death  has  to  be  dodged  by  never-failing 
vigilance,  his  righteous  wrath  will  be  softened,  perhaps,  by 
the  remembrance  that  these  were  the  chariots  of  General 
Manoury's  army  before  the  battle  of  Meaux,  which  turned 
the  tide  of  war  and  flung  back  the  enemy  in  retreat. 

It  will  be  to  the  lasting  credit  of  General  Joffre  and  the 
French  Staff  that  after  six  weeks  of  disorder  owing  to  the 
unreadiness  of  their  army  and  their  grievous  errors  in  the 
disposition  of  the  available  troops,  they  recovered  themselves 


THE     TURN     OF     THE     TIDE         111 

in  a  supreme  eflFort  and  by  a  brilliant  stroke  of  strategy  took 
the  enemy  completely  by  surprise  and  dealt  him  a  staggering 
blow.  The  German  Headquarters  Staff  —  the  brains  of  the 
greatest  military  machine  in  Europe  —  sublimely  arrogant  in 
their  belief  that  they  had  an  exclusive  knowledge  of  the  whole 
science  of  war  and  that  the  allied  armies  were  poor  blun- 
derers without  intelligence  and  without  organization,  utterly 
incapable  of  resisting  the  military  genius  of  the  German  race, 
found  themselves  foiled  and  outmaneuvered  at  the  very  mo- 
ment when  the  prize  of  victory  seemed  to  be  within  their 
grasp. 

For  the  first  time  since  the  beginning  of  their  advance  into 
French  territory  they  were  confronted  with  something  like 
equal  numbers,  and  they  were  brought  to  a  halt  at  once. 
This  arrest,  shocking  to  their  self-confidence,  was  found  to 
be  more  than  a  mere  check  easily  overpowered  by  bringing 
up  more  battalions.  General  von  Kluck  realized  that  the 
French  had  gathered  together  a  formidable  mass  of  men 
ready  to  be  flung  upon  his  right  flank.  Their  guns  were 
already  beginning  to  open  fire  with  frightful  effect  upon  his 
advanced  columns.  The  pressure  of  French  regiments 
marching  stead -'y  and  swiftly  from  the  southeast  and  south- 
west after  weeks  of  retirement,  was  forcing  in  his  outposts, 
chasing  back  his  cavalry  and  revealing  a  strong  and  reso- 
lute offensive.  On  September  4  and  5  there  was  heavy  fight- 
ing on  the  German  left  and  center,  to  the  south  of  the  Mame 
and  the  west  of  the  Ourcq.  While  General  von  Kluck  was 
endeavoring  to  resist  the  thrust  of  the  French  and  British 
troops  who  were  massing  their  guns  with  great  strength  on 
his  right.  General  von  Billow's  left  wing,  with  the  Saxon  army 
and  the  Prince  of  Wurtemburg's  army,  made  desperate  at- 
tempts to  break  the  French  center  by  violent  attacks  to  the 
north  of  Sezanne  and  Vitry-le-Francois.  For  two  days  the 
Germans  tested  the  full  measure  of  the  strength  opposed  to 
them,  but  failed  in  smashing  through  any  part  of  the  French 
line,  so  that  the  Allies,  successful  in  holding  their  ground 


113  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

against  the  full  weight  of  the  enemy,  gained  time  for  the  sup- 
ports to  reach  them  and  then  developed  a  complete  and  gen- 
eral attack. 

Von  Kluck  found  that  his  troops  were  yielding.  The 
French  mordant  was  too  much  for  Prussians  as  well  as 
Saxons,  who  in  many  villages  of  France  and  in  the  hollows 
of  the  downs  were  heavily  punished  by  the  Anglo-French 
artillery,  and  routed  by  bayonet  charges  thrust  home  with 
incredible  ferocity.  The  German  Headquarters  Staff,  re- 
ceiving these  reports  from  all  parts  of  the  line,  must  have 
had  many  moral  shocks,  undermining  their  pride  and  racking 
their  nerves.  Perhaps  one  day  we  shall  read  the  history  of 
those  councils  of  war  between  the  German  generals,  when 
men  who  had  been  confident  of  victory  began  to  be  haunted 
by  doubt,  hiding  their  fears  even  from  themselves  until  they 
were  forced  to  a  gloomy  recognition  of  grave  perils.  Some 
of  these  men  must  have  wept  and  others  cursed,  while  Von 
Kluck  decided  to  play  again  for  safety,  and  issued  an  order 
for  retreat.  Retreat!  What  would  the  Emperor  say  in 
Berlin  where  he  waited  for  the  prize  of  Paris  and  heard  that 
it  had  slipped  from  his  grasp?  How  could  they  explain  the 
meaning  of  that  retreat  to  the  people  at  home,  expecting 
loot  from  the  Louvre  and  souvenirs  from  Paris  shops? 

Some  of  the  officers  thought  these  things  —  I  have  read 
their  letters  —  but  General  von  Kluck  must  have  had  only 
one  dominating  and  absorbing  thought,  more  important  even 
than  an  Emperor's  anger.  "  Gott  im  Himmel,  shall  I  get 
this  army  back  to  a  stronger  line  or  shall  I  risk  all  on  a  fight 
in  the  open,  against  those  French  and  British  guns  and 
almost  equal  odds?  "  The  failure  of  the  German  center  was 
the  gravest  disaster,  and  threatened  Von  Kluck  with  the 
menace  of  an  enveloping  movement  by  the  allied  troops  which 
might  lead  to  his  destruction,  with  the  flower  of  the  Imperial 
troops.  Away  back  there  on  the  Aisne  were  impregnable 
positions  tempting  to  hard-pressed  men.  Leaving  nothing 
to  chance,  the  Germans  had  prepared  them  already  in  case 


THE     TURN     OF     THE     TIDE         113 

of  retreat,  though  it  had  not  been  dreamed  of  then  as  more 
than  a  fantastic  possibility.  The  fortune  of  war  itself  as 
well  as  cautious  judgment  pointed  back  to  the  Aisne  for 
safety.  The  allied  armies  were  closing  up,  increasing  in 
strength  of  men  and  guns  as  the  hours  passed.  In  a  day  or 
two  it  might  be  too  late  to  reach  the  strongholds  of  the 
hills.  .  .  . 

So  the  retreat  of  the  German  right  wing  which  had  cut 
like  a  knife  through  northern  France  until  its  edge  was 
blunted  by  a  wall  of  steel,  began  on  September  5  and  in- 
creased in  momentum  as  the  allied  troops  followed  hard  upon 
the  enemy's  heels.  The  great  mass  of  the  German  left 
swung  backwards  in  a  steady  and  orderly  way,  not  losing 
many  men  and  not  demoralized  by  this  amazing  turn  in  for- 
tune's wheel.  "  It  is  frightfully  disappointing,"  wrote  a 
German  officer  whose  letter  was  found  afterwards  on  his  dead 
body.  "  We  believed  that  we  should  enter  Paris  in  triumph 
and  to  turn  away  from  it  is  a  bitter  thing  for  the  men.  But 
I  trust  our  chiefs  and  I  know  that  it  is  only  a  strategical 
retirement.     Paris  will  still  be  ours." 

Truly  it  was  a  strategical  retirement  and  not  a  "  rout," 
as  it  was  called  by  the  English  Press  Bureau.  But  all  re- 
tirements are  costly  when  the  enemy  follows  close,  and  the 
rear-guard  of  Von  Kluck's  army  was  in  a  terrible  plight  and 
suffered  heavy  losses.  The  French  light  artillery  opened  fire 
in  a  running  pursuit,  advancing  their  guns  from  position  to 
position  with  very  brief  halts,  during  which  the  famous 
"  soixante-quinze  "  flung  out  shells  upon  bodies  of  troops  at 
close  range  —  so  that  they  fell  like  wheat  cut  to  pieces  in  a 
hailstorm.  The  British  gunners  were  pushing  forward,  less 
impetuously  but  with  a  steady  persistence,  to  the  west  of  the 
River  Ourcq,  and  after  all  their  hardships,  losses,  and  fa- 
tigues, the  men  who  had  been  tired  of  retreating  were  heart- 
ened now  that  their  turn  had  come  to  give  chase. 

Episodes  that  seem  as  incredible  as  a  boy's  romance  of 
war  took  place  in  those  first  days  of  September  when  the 


114  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

German  right  rolled  back  in  a  retreating  tide.  On  one  of 
those  days  an  English  regiment  marched  along  a  dusty  road 
for  miles  with  another  body  of  men  tramping  at  the  same 
pace  on  a  parallel  road,  in  the  same  white  dust  which  cloaked 
their  uniforms  —  not  of  English  khaki,  but  made  in  Germany. 
Hundreds  of  German  soldiers,  exhausted  by  this  forced  march 
in  the  heat,  without  food  or  water,  fell  out,  took  to  the  cover 
of  woods,  and  remained  there  for  weeks,  in  parties  of  six  or 
eight,  making  their  way  to  lonely  farmhouses  where  they 
demanded  food  with  rifles  leveled  at  frightened  peasants,  tak- 
ing pot-shots  at  English  soldiers  who  had  fallen  out  in  the 
same  way,  and  hiding  in  thickets  until  they  were  hunted  out 
by  battues  of  soldiers  long  after  the  first  great  battle  of  the 
Marne.  It  was  the  time  for  strange  adventures  when  even 
civilians  wandering  in  the  wake  of  battle  found  themselves 
covered  by  the  weapons  of  men  who  cared  nothing  for  human 
life,  whether  it  was  their  own  or  another's,  and  when  small 
battalions  of  French  or  English,  led  by  daring  officers,  fought 
separate  battles  in  isolated  villages,  held  by  small  bodies  of 
the  enem}',  cut  off  from  the  main  army  but  savagely  deter- 
mined to  fight  to  the  death. 

Out  of  the  experiences  of  those  few  days  many  curious 
chapters  of  history  will  be  written  by  regimental  officers  and 
men.  I  have  heard  scores  of  stories  of  the  kind,  told  while 
the  thrill  of  them  still  flushed  the  cheeks  of  the  narrators, 
and  when  the  wounds  they  had  gained  in  these  fields  of 
France  were  still  stabbed  with  red-hot  needles  of  pain,  so  that 
a  man's  laughter  would  be  checked  by  a  quivering  sigh  and  his 
lips  parched  by  a  great  thirst. 

Because  of  its  vivid  interest  and  its  fine  candor,  I  will 
give  one  such  story.  It  was  told  to  me  by  a  young  officer  of 
Zouaves  who  had  been  in  the  thickest  of  the  fighting  to  the 
east  of  Paris.  He  had  come  out  of  action  with  a  piece  of 
shell  in  his  left  arm,  and  his  uniform  was  splashed  with  the 
blood  of  his  wound.  I  wish  I  could  write  it  in  his  soldierly 
French  words  —  so  simple  and  direct,  yet  emotional  at  times 


THE     TURN     OF     THE     TIDE        116 

with  the  eloquence  of  a  man  who  speaks  of  the  horrors  which 
have  scorched  his  eyes  and  of  the  fear  that  for  a  Httle  while 
robbed  him  of  all  courage  and  of  the  great  tragedy  of  this 
beastly  business  of  war  which  puts  truth  upon  the  lips  of  men. 

I  wish  also  I  could  convey  to  my  readers'  minds  the  por- 
trait of  that  young  man  with  his  candid  brown  eyes,  his  little 
black  mustache,  his  black  stubble  of  beard,  as  I  saw  him  in 
the  rags  and  tatters  of  his  Zouave  dress,  concealed  a  little 
beneath  his  long  gray-blue  cape  of  a  German  Uhlan,  whom  he 
had  killed  with  his  sword. 

When  he  described  his  experience  he  puffed  at  a  long  Ger- 
man pipe  which  he  had  found  in  the  pocket  of  the  cape,  and 
laughed  now  and  then  at  this  trophy,  of  which  he  was  im- 
mensely proud. 

"  For  four  days  previous  to  Monday,  September  7,"  he 
said,  "  we  were  engaged  in  clearing  out  the  German  '  boches  ' 
from  all  the  villages  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Ourcq,  which  they 
had  occupied  in  order  to  protect  the  flank  of  their  right 
wing. 

"  Unfortunately  for  us  the  English  heavy  artillery,  which 
would  have  smashed  the  beggars  to  bits,  had  not  yet  come 
up  to  help  us,  although  we  expected  them  with  some  anxiety, 
as  the  big  business  events  began  as  soon  as  we  drove  the  out- 
posts back  to  their  main  lines. 

"  However,  we  were  quite  equal  to  the  preliminary  task, 
and  heartened  by  the  news  of  the  ammunition  convoy  which 
had  been  turned  into  a  very  pretty  fireworks  display  by 
'  Soixante-dix  Pau.'  My  Zouaves  —  as  you  see  I  belong  to 
the  First  Division,  which  has  a  reputation  to  keep  up  — 
n'est-ce-pas?  —  were  in  splendid  form. 

"  They  were  just  like  athletes  who  want  to  be  first  off  the 
mark,  or  rather  perhaps  I  should  say  like  bloodhounds  on 
the  scent. 

"  Still,  just  to  encourage  them  a  little,  don't  you  know,  I 
pulled  out  my  revolver,  showed  it  to  my  little  ones,  and  said 
very  gently  that  the  first  man  who  hesitated  to  advance  under 


116  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

the  fire  of  the  German  guns  would  be  a  dead  man  before  he 
took  a  step  to  the  rear.  (In  every  regiment  there  are  one 
or  two  men  who  want  encouraging  in  this  way.)  Of  course, 
they  all  laughed  at  me.  They  wanted  to  get  near  those 
German  guns,  and  nearer  still  to  the  gunners.  That  was 
before  they  knew  the  exact  meaning  of  shell  fire.  Well,  they 
did  good  things,  those  Zouaves  of  mine.  But  it  wasn't  pleas- 
ant work.  We  fought  from  village  to  village,  very  close 
fighting,  so  that  sometimes  we  could  look  into  our  enemy's 
eyes.  The  Moroccans  were  with  us,  the  native  troops,  unlike 
my  boys  who  are  Frenchmen,  and  they  were  like  demons  with 
their  ba^^onet  work. 

"  Several  of  the  villages  were  set  on  fire  by  the  Germans 
before  they  retired  from  them,  and  soon  great  columns  of 
smoke  with  pillars  of  flame  and  clouds  of  flying  sparks  rose 
up  into  the  blue  sky,  and  made  a  picture  of  hell  there.  For 
really  it  was  hell  on  earth. 

"  Our  gunners  were  shelling  the  Germans  from  pillar  to 
post,  as  it  were,  and  strewing  the  ground  with  their  dead. 
It  was  across  and  among  these  dead  bodies  that  we  infantry 
had  to  charge.  They  lay  about  in  heaps,  masses  of  bleeding 
flesh.     It  made  me  sick,  even  in  the  excitement  of  it  all.  .  .  . 

"  The  enemy's  quickfirers  were  marvelous.  I  am  bound  to 
say  we  did  not  get  it  all  our  own  way.  They  always  maneu- 
ver them  in  the  same  style,  and  very  clever  it  is.  First  of 
all  they  mask  them  with  infantry.  Then  when  the  French 
charge  they  reveal  them  and  put  us  to  the  test  under  the 
most  withering  fire.  It  is  almost  impossible  to  stand  against 
it,  and  in  this  case  we  had  to  retire  after  each  rush  for  about 
250  meters. 

"  Then  quick  as  lightning  the  Germans  got  their  mitrail- 
leuses across  the  ground  which  we  had  yielded  to  them,  and 
waited  for  us  to  come  on  again ;  when  they  repeated  the  same 
operation. 

"  I  can  tell  you  it  was  pretty  trying  to  the  nerves,  but 
my  Zouaves  were  very  steady  in  spite  of  fairly  heavy  losses. 


THE     TURN     OF    THE     TIDE        117 

"  In  a  village  named  Penchard  there  was  some  very  sharp 
fighting,  and  some  of  our  artillery  were  posted  hereabouts. 
Presently  a  German  aeroplane  came  overhead  circling  round 
in  reconnaissance.  But  it  was  out  for  more  than  that. 
Suddenly  it  began  to  drop  bombs,  and  whether  by  design 
or  otherwise  —  they  have  no  manners,  these  fellows  —  they 
exploded  in  the  middle  of  a  field  hospital.  One  of  my  friends, 
a  young  doctor,  was  wounded  in  the  left  arm  by  a  bullet 
from  one  of  these  bombs,  though  I  don't  know  what  other  cas- 
ualties there  were.  But  the  inevitable  happened.  Shortly 
after  the  disappearance  of  the  aeroplane  the  German  shells 
searched  the  position,  and  found  it  with  unpleasant  accuracy. 
It  is  always  the  same.  The  German  aeroplanes  are  really 
wonderful  in  the  way  they  search  out  the  position  of  our 
guns.  We  always  know  that  within  half  an  hour  of  an  ob- 
servation by  aeroplane  the  shells  will  begin  to  fall  above  the 
gunners  unless  they  have  altered  their  position.  It  was  so 
in  this  fighting  round  Meaux  yesterday. 

"  For  some  days  this  rat-hunting  among  the  villages  on 
the  left  bank  of  the  Ourcq  went  on  all  the  time,  and  we  were 
not  very  happy.  The  truth  was  that  we  had  no  water  for 
ourselves,  and  were  four  days  thirsty.  It  was  really  terrible, 
for  the  heat  was  terrific  during  the  day,  and  some  of  us  were 
almost  mad  with  thirst.  Our  tongues  were  blistered  and 
swollen,  our  eyes  had  a  silly  kind  of  look  in  them,  and  at 
night  we  had  horrid  dreams.  It  was,  I  assure  you,  an  in- 
tolerable agony. 

"  But  we  did  our  best  for  the  horses.  I  have  said  we 
were  four  days  without  drink.  That  was  because  we  used 
our  last  water  for  the  poor  beasts.  A  gentleman  has  to  do 
that  —  you  will  agree?  —  and  the  French  soldier  is  not  a 
barbarian.  Even  then  the  horses  had  to  go  without  a  drop 
of  water  for  two  days,  and  I'm  not  ashamed  to  say  that  I 
wept  salt  tears  to  see  the  sufferings  of  those  poor  innocent 
creatures,  who  did  not  understand  the  meaning  of  all  this 
bloody  business  and  who  wondered  at  our  cruelty. 


118  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

"  The  nights  were  dreadful.  All  around  us  were  burning 
villages,  the  dear  hamlets  of  France,  and  at  every  faint  puff 
of  wind  the  sparks  floated  about  them  like  falling  stars. 
But  other  fires  were  burning.  Under  the  cover  of  darkness 
the  Germans  had  collected  their  dead  and  had  piled  them 
into  great  heaps  and  had  covered  them  with  straw  and 
paraffin.     Then  they  had  set  a  torch  to  these  funeral  pyres. 

"  Carrion  crows  were  about  in  the  dawn  that  followed. 
Not  many  of  them,  but  they  came  flopping  about  the  dead 
bodies,  and  the  living,  with  hungry  beaks.  One  of  my  own 
comrades  lay  very  badly  wounded,  and  when  he  wakened  out 
of  his  unconsciousness  one  of  these  beastly  birds  was  sitting 
on  his  chest  waiting  for  him  to  die.     That  is  war ! 

"  Yet  there  are  other  things  in  war.  Fine  and  splendid 
things.  It  was  magnificent  to  see  your  English  gunners 
come  up.  They  were  rather  late  in  the  field.  They  did  not 
appear  until  midday  on  September  7,  when  the  big  battle 
was  going  on,  and  when  we  were  doing  our  best  to  push  back 
the  German  right  wing.  They  came  up  just  as  if  they  were 
on  the  parade  ground,  marvelously  cool,  very  chic  fellows, 
superb  in  their  manner  of  handling  their  guns.  It  was  heavy 
artillery,  and  we  badly  wanted  it.  And  nothing  could  budge 
your  men,  though  the  German  shell-fire  was  very  hot. 

"  That  is  the  way  with  your  British  gunners.  They  are 
different  from  the  French,  who  are  always  best  when  they 
are  moving  forward,  but  do  not  like  to  stay  in  one  position. 
But  when  your  men  have  taken  up  their  ground,  nothing  can 
move  them.     Nothing  on  earth ! 

"  And  yet  the  German  shells  were  terrifying.  I  confess 
to  you  that  there  were  times  when  my  nerves  were  absolutely 
gone.  I  crouched  down  with  my  men  —  we  were  in  open 
formation  —  and  ducked  my  head  at  the  sound  of  the  burst- 
ing '  obus  '  and  trembled  in  every  limb  as  though  I  had  a  fit 
of  ague.  God  rebuked  me  for  the  bombast  with  which  I  had 
spoken  to  my  men. 

"  One  hears  the  zip  zip  of  the  bullets,  the  boom  of  the 


THE     TURN     OF     THE     TIDE         119 

great  guns,  the  tang  of  our  sharp  French  artillery,  and  in 
all  this  infernal  experience  of  noise  and  stench,  the  screams 
of  dying  horses  and  men  joined  with  the  fury  of  the  gun- 
fire, and  rose  shrill  above  it.  No  man  may  boast  of  his 
courage.  Dear  God,  there  were  moments  when  I  was  a  cow- 
ard with  all  of  them ! 

"  But  one  gets  used  to  it,  as  to  all  things.  My  ague  did 
not  last  long.  Soon  I  was  cheering  and  shouting  again. 
We  cleared  the  enemy  out  of  the  village  of  Bregy,  and  that 
was  where  I  fell  wounded  in  the  ann  pretty  badly,  by  a  bit 
of  shell.  I  bled  like  a  stuck  pig,  as  you  can  see,  but  when  I 
came  to  myself  again  a  brother  officer  told  me  that  things 
were  going  on  well,  and  that  we  had  rolled  back  the  German 
right.  That  was  better  than  a  bandage  to  me.  I  felt  very 
well  again,  in  spite  of  my  weakness. 

"  It  is  the  beginning  of  the  end.  The  Germans  are  on 
the  run.  They  are  exhausted  and  demoralized.  Their  pride 
has  been  broken.  They  are  short  of  ammunition.  They 
know  that  their  plans  have  failed.  Now  that  we  have  them 
on  the  move  nothing  will  save  them.  This  war  is  going  to 
finish  quicker  than  people  thought.  I  believe  that  in  a  few 
days  the  enemy  will  be  broken,  and  that  we  shall  have  nothing 
more  to  do  than  kill  them  as  they  fight  back  in  retreat." 

That  is  the  story,  without  any  retouching  c'  ""■  -  rn,  of 
the  young  lieutenant  of  Zouaves  whom  I  met  aiter  cue  cattle 
of  Meaux,  with  the  blood  still  splashed  upon  his  uniform. 

It  is  a  human  story,  giving  the  experience  of  only  one 
individual  in  a  great  battle,  but  clearly  enough  there  emerges 
from  it  the  truth  of  that  great  operation  which  did  irrepar- 
able damage  to  the  German  right  wing  in  its  plan  of  cam- 
paign. The  optimism  with  which  this  officer  ended  his  tale 
makes  one  smile  a  little  now,  though  in  a  pitiful  way.  The 
words  in  which  he  prophesied  a  quick  finish  to  the  war  were 
spoken  in  September,  1914,  before  the  agony  of  the  winter 
campaign,  the  awful  monotony  of  that  siege  warfare,  and  the 
tides  of  blood  that  came  in  the  spring  of  another  year. 


120  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

The  retreat  of  the  Germans  to  the  Marne,  when  those 
columns  of  men  turned  their  backs  on  Paris  and  trudged 
back  along  many  roads  down  which  they  had  come  with  songs 
of  victory  and  across  stony  fields  strewn  already  with  the 
debris  of  fighting,  on  through  villages  where  they  burned  and 
looted  as  they  passed,  left  a  trail  of  muck  and  blood  and 
ruin.  Five  weeks  before,  when  I  had  traveled  through  part 
of  the  countryside  from  the  eastern  frontier  of  France,  the 
spirit  of  beauty  dwelt  in  it.  Those  fields,  without  any  black 
blotches  on  grass  nibbled  short  by  flocks  of  sheep,  were  fresh 
and  green  in  the  sunlight.  Wild  flowers  spangled  them  with 
gold  and  silver.  No  horrors  lurked  in  the  woods,  where  birds 
sang  shrill  choruses  to  the  humming  undertone  of  Nature's 
organists.  Little  French  towns  stood  white  on  the  hillsides 
and  in  villages  of  whitewashed  houses  under  thatch  roofs, 
with  deep,  low  barns  filled  with  the  first  fruits  of  the  harvest, 
peasant  girls  laughed  as  they  filled  their  jugs  from  the  wells, 
and  boys  and  girls  played  games  in  the  market  places  and 
old  men  and  women,  sitting  in  the  cool  gloom  of  their  door- 
ways, watched  the  old  familiar  things  of  peaceful  life  and 
listened  to  the  chimes  of  the  church  clocks,  without  any  terror 
in  their  hearts.  War  had  been  declared,  but  it  seemed  re- 
mote in  its  actual  cruelty.     There  was  only  the  faint  thrill 

of  unr ^""^.^ed  drama  in  the  scenes  which  passed  through 

these  village  streets  as  guns  rattled  over  the  cobblestones,  or 
as  a  squadron  of  light  blue  cavalry  streamed  by,  with  bronzed 
men  who  grinned  at  the  peasant  girls,  and  horses  still 
groomed  and  glossy.  It  is  true  that  in  some  of  these  vil- 
lages mothers  of  France  had  clasped  their  sons  to  their 
bosoms  and  wept  a  little  over  their  nestling  heads  and  wept 
still  more  in  loneliness  when  the  boys  had  gone  away.  The 
shadow  of  the  war  had  crept  into  all  these  villages  of  France, 
but  outwardly  they  were  still  at  peace  and  untroubled  by  the 
far-off  peril.  Nature  was  indifferent  to  the  stupid  ways  of 
men.  Her  beauty  had  the  ripeness  of  the  full-blown  sum- 
mer and  the  somnolence  of  golden  days  when  the  woods  are 


THE     TURN     OF     THE     TIDE         121 

very  still  in  the  shimmering  heat  and  not  a  grass-blade  moves 
except  when  a  cricket  stirs  it  with  its  chirruping. 

Now,  along  the  line  of  the  retreat,  nature  itself  was  fouled 
and  the  old  dwelling  places  of  peace  were  wrecked.  Fighting 
their  way  back  the  enemy  had  burned  many  villages,  or  had 
defended  them  against  a  withering  fire  from  the  pursuing 
troops,  so  that  their  blackened  stumps  of  timber,  and 
charred,  broken  walls,  with  heaps  of  ashes  which  were  once 
farmhouses  and  barns,  remained  as  witness  of  the  horror  that 
had  passed.  Along  the  roadways  were  the  bodies  of  dead 
horses.  Swarms  of  flies  were  black  upon  them,  browsing  on 
their  putrefying  flesh,  from  which  a  stench  came  poisoning 
the  air  and  raising  above  the  scent  of  flowers  and  the  sweet 
smell  of  hay  in  edd3'ing  waves  of  abominable  odor.  In  vil- 
lages where  there  had  been  street  fighting,  like  those  of 
Barcy,  and  Poincy,  Neufmoutiers  and  Montlyon,  Douy-la- 
Ramee  and  Chevreville,  the  whitewashed  cottages  and  old 
farmsteads  which  were  used  as  cover  by  the  German  soldiers 
before  they  were  driven  out  by  shell-fire  or  bayonet  charges, 
were  shattered  into  shapeless  ruin.  Here  and  there  a  house 
had  escaped.  It  stood  trim  and  neat  amid  the  wreckage.  A 
cafe  restaurant  still  displayed  its  placards  advertising  Du- 
bonnet and  other  aperitifs,  peppered  by  shrapnel  bullets,  but 
otherwise  intact.  Here  and  there  whole  streets  stood  spared, 
without  a  trace  of  conflict,  and  in  a  street  away  the  cottages 
had  fallen  down  like  card-houses  toppled  over  by  the  hand  of 
a  petulant  child.  In  other  villages  it  was  difficult  to  believe 
that  war  had  passed  that  way.  It  was  rather  as  though  a 
plague  had  driven  their  inhabitants  to  fliglit.  The  houses 
were  still  shuttered  as  when  the  bourgeois  and  peasant  had 
fled  at  the  first  news  of  the  German  advance.  It  was  only  by 
the  intense  solitude  and  silence  that  one  realized  the  presence 
of  some  dreadful  visitation,  only  that  and  a  faint  odor  of 
corruption  stealing  from  a  dark  mass  of  unknown  beastliness 
huddled  under  a  stone  wall,  and  the  deep  ruts  and  holes  in  the 
roadway,  made  by  gun-carriages  and  wagons. 


122  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

Spent  cartridges  lay  about,  and  fragments  of  shell,  and 
here  and  there  shells  which  had  failed  to  burst  until  they 
buried  their  nozzles  in  the  earth. 

French  peasants  prowled  about  for  these  trophies,  though 
legally  they  had  no  right  to  them,  as  they  came  under  the 
penalties  attached  to  loot.  In  many  of  the  cottages  which 
were  used  by  the  German  officers  there  were  signs  of  a  hasty 
evacuation.  Capes  and  leather  pouches  still  lay  about  on 
chairs  and  bedsteads.  Half  finished  letters,  written  to  women 
in  the  Fatherland  who  will  never  read  those  words,  had  been 
trampled  under  heel  by  hurrying  boots. 

I  saw  similar  scenes  in  Turkey  when  the  victorious  Bul- 
garians marched  after  the  retreating  Turks.  I  never 
dreamed  then  that  such  scenes  would  happen  in  France  in 
the  wake  of  a  German  retreat.  It  is  a  little  thing,  like  one 
of  those  unfinished  letters  from  a  soldier  to  his  wife,  which 
overwhelms  one  with  pity^  for  all  the  tragedy  of  war. 

"  Meine  liebe  Frau."  Somewhere  in  Germany  a  woman 
was  waiting  for  the  scrap  of  paper,  wet  with  dew  and  half 
obliterated  by  mud,  which  I  picked  up  in  the  Forest  of 
Compiegne,  She  would  wait  week  after  week  for  that  letter 
from  the  front,  and  day  after  day  during  those  weeks  she 
would  be  sick  at  heart  because  no  word  came,  no  word  which 
would  make  her  say,  "  Gott  sei  dank !  "  as  she  knelt  by  the 
bedside  of  a  fair-haired  boy  so  wonderfully  like  the  man  who 
had  gone  away  to  that  unvermeidliche  Krieg  which  had  come 
at  last.  I  found  hundreds  of  letters  like  this,  but  so  soppy 
and  trampled  down  that  I  could  read  only  a  word  or  two  in 
German  script.  They  fluttered  about  the  fields  and  lay  in 
a  litter  of  beef  tins  left  behind  by  British  soldiers  on  their 
own  retreat  over  the  same  fields. 

Yet  I  picked  them  up  and  stared  at  them  and  seemed  to 
come  closer  into  touch  with  the  tragedy  which,  for  the  most 
part,  up  to  now,  I  could  only  guess  at  by  the  flight  of  fugi- 
tives, by  the  backwash  of  wounded,  by  the  destruction  of  old 
houses,  and  by  the  silence  of  abandoned  villages.     Not  yet 


THE     TURN     OF     THE     TIDE        123 

had  I  seen  the  real  work  of  war,  or  watched  the  effects  of 
shell-fire  on  living  men.  I  was  still  groping  towards  the 
heart  of  the  business  and  wandering  in  its  backyards. 

I  came  closer  to  the  soul  of  war  on  a  certain  Sunday  in 
September.  By  that  time  the  enemy's  retreat  had  finished 
and  the  German  army  under  General  von  Kluck  was  at  last 
on  the  other  side  of  the  Aisne,  in  the  strongholds  of  the  hills 
at  which  the  French  and  British  guns  were  vainly  battering 
at  the  beginning  of  a  long  and  dreary  siege  against  en- 
trenched positions. 

All  day  long,  on  this  Sunday  in  September,  I  trudged  over 
battlefields  still  littered  with  the  horrors  of  recent  fighting, 
towards  the  lines,  stretching  northwards  and  eastwards  from 
Vic-sur-Aisne  to  Noyon  and  Soissons,  where  for  six  days 
without  an  hour's  pause  one  of  the  greatest  battles  in  his- 
tory had  continued. 

As  I  walked  far  beyond  the  rails  from  the  town  of  Crepy-en- 
Valois,  which  had  suffered  the  ravages  of  the  German  legions, 
and  on  through  the  forest  of  Villers-Cotterets  and  over  fields 
of  turnips  and  stubble,  which  only  a  few  days  ago  were 
trampled  by  French  and  British  troops  following  the  enemy 
upon  their  line  of  retreat,  to  the  north  side  of  the  Aisne,  the 
great  guns  of  our  heavy  artillery  shocked  the  air  with  thun- 
derous reverberations. 

Never  for  more  than  a  minute  or  two  did  those  thunder- 
claps cease.  In  those  intervals  the  silence  was  intense,  as 
though  Nature  —  the  spirit  of  these  woods  and  hills  —  lis- 
tened with  strained  ears  and  a  frightened  hush  for  the  next 
report.  It  came  louder  as  I  advanced  nearer  to  the  firing 
line,  with  startling  crashes,  as  though  the  summits  of  the  hills 
were  falling  into  the  deepest  valleys.  They  were  answered 
by  vague,  distant,  murmurous  echoes,  which  I  knew  to  be  the 
voice  of  the  enemy's  guns  six  miles  further  away,  but  not 
so  far  away  that  they  could  not  find  the  range  of  our  own 
artillery. 

Presently,  as  I  tramped  on,  splashing  through  water-pools 


1»4  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

and  along  rutty  tracks  plowed  up  by  the  wheels  of  gun  car- 
riages, I  heard  the  deeper,  more  sonorous  booming  of  differ- 
ent guns,  followed  by  a  percussion  of  the  air  as  though  great 
winds  were  rushing  into  void  spaces.  These  strange  ominous 
sounds  were  caused  by  the  heavy  pieces  which  the  enemy  had 
brought  up  to  the  heights  above  the  marshlands  of  the  Aisne 
—  the  terrible  11-inch  guns  which  outranged  all  pieces  in  the 
French  or  British  lines.  With  that  marvelous  foresight 
which  the  Germans  had  shown  in  all  their  plans,  these  had 
been  embedded  in  cemei>t  two  weeks  before  in  high  emplace- 
ments, while  their  advanced  columns  were  threatening  down 
to  Paris.  The  Germans  even  'then  were  preparing  a  safe 
place  of  retreat  for  themselves  in  case  their  grand  coup 
should  fail,  and  our  British  troops  had  to  suffer  from  this 
organization  on  the  part  of  an  enemy  which  was  confident  of 
victory  but  remembered  the  need  of  a  safe  way  back. 

I  have  been  for  many  strange  walks  in  my  life  with  strange 
companions,  up  and  down  the  world,  but  never  have  I  gone 
for  such  a  tramp  with  such  a  guide  as  on  this  Sunday  within 
sound  of  the  guns.  My  comrade  of  this  day  was  a  grave- 
digger. 

His  ordinary  profession  is  that  of  a  garde  champetre,  or 
village  policeman,  but  during  the  last  three  weeks  he  had 
been  busy  with  the  spade,  which  he  carried  across  his  shoulder 
by  my  side.  With  other  peasants  enrolled  for  the  same 
tragic  task  he  had  followed  the  line  of  battle  for  twenty  kilo- 
meters from  his  own  village,  Rouville,  near  Levignen,  help- 
ing to  bury  the  French  and  British  dead,  and  helping  to  bum 
the  German  coi'pses. 

His  work  was  not  nearly  done  when  I  met  him,  for  during 
the  fighting  in  the  region  round  the  forest  of  Villers-Cot- 
terets,  twice  a  battlefield,  as  the  Germans  advanced  and  then 
retreated,  first  pursuing  and  then  pursued  by  the  French  and 
British,  3000  German  dead  had  been  left  upon  the  way,  and 
1000  of  our  allied  troops.     Dig  as  hard  as  he  could  my 


THE     TURN     OF     THE     TIDE         125 

friendly  grave-digger  had  been  unable  to  cover  up  all  those 
brothcrs-in-arms  who  lay  out  in  the  wind  and  the  rain. 

I  walked  among  the  fields  where  they  lay,  and  among  their 
roughly  piled  graves,  and  not  far  from  the  heaps  of  the 
enemy's  dead  who  were  awaiting  their  funeral  pyres. 

My  guide  grasped  my  arm  and  pointed  to  a  dip  in  the 
ground  beyond  the  abandoned  village  of  Levignen. 

"  See  there,"  he  said,  "  they  take  some  time  to  burn." 

He  spoke  in  a  matter-of-fact  way,  like  a  gardener  pointing 
to  a  bonfire  of  autumn  leaves. 

But  there  in  line  with  his  forefinger  rose  a  heavy  rolling 
smoke,  sluggish  in  the  rain  under  a  leaden  sky,  and  I  knew 
that  those  leaves  yonder  had  fallen  from  the  great  tree  of 
human  life,  and  this  bonfire  was  made  from  an  unnatural 
harvesting. 

The  French  and  British  dead  were  laid  in  the  same  graves 
— "  Are  they  not  brothers?  "  asked  the  man  with  the  spade 
—  and  as  soon  as  the  peasants  had  courage  to  creep  back 
to  their  villages  and  their  woods  they  gathered  leaves  and 
strewed  them  upon  those  mounds  of  earth  among  which  I 
wandered,  as  heroes'  wreaths.  But  no  such  honor  was  paid 
to  the  enemy,  and  with  a  little  petrol  and  straw,  they  were 
put  to  the  flames  until  only  their  charred  ashes,  wind-swept 
and  wet  with  heavy  rain,  marked  the  place  of  their  death. 

It  is  the  justice  of  men.  It  makes  no  difference.  But  as 
I  stood  and  watched  these  smoky  fires,  between  the  beauty 
of  great  woods  stretching  away  to  the  far  hills,  and  close 
to  a  village  which  seemed  a  picture  of  human  peace,  with  its 
old  church-tower  and  red-brown  roofs,  I  was  filled  with  pity 
at  all  this  misery  and  needless  death  which  has  flung  its 
horror  across  the  fair  fields  of  France. 

What  was  the  sense  of  it?  Why,  in  God's  name,  or  the 
Devil's,  were  men  killing  each  other  like  this  on  the  fields  of 
France,  so  that  human  life  was  of  no  more  value  than  that 
of  vermin  slaughtered  ruthlessly?     Each  one  of  the  German 


126  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

corpses  whose  flesh  was  roasting  under  those  oily  clouds  of 
smoke  had  been  a  young  man  with  bright  hopes,  and  a  gift 
of  laughter,  and  some  instincts  of  love  in  his  heart.  At  least 
he  had  two  eyes  and  a  nose,  and  other  features  common  to 
the  brotherhood  of  man.  Was  there  really  the  mark  of  the 
beast  upon  him  so  that  he  should  be  killed  at  sight,  without 
pity.f*  I  wondered  if  in  that  roasting  mass  of  human  flesh 
were  any  of  the  men  who  had  been  kind  to  me  in  Germany  — 
the  young  poet  whose  wife  had  plucked  roses  for  me  in  her 
garden,  and  touched  them  with  her  lips  and  said,  "  Take 
them  to  England  with  my  love,"  or  the  big  Bavarian  pro- 
fessor who  had  shared  his  food  with  me  in  the  hills  above 
Adrianople;  or  any  of  the  Leipzig  students  who  had  clinked 
glasses  with  me  in  the  beer-halls. 

It  was  Germany's  guilt  —  this  war.  Well,  I  could  not 
read  all  the  secrets  of  our  Foreign  Office  for  twenty  years 
or  more  to  know  with  what  tact  or  tactlessness,  with  what 
honesty  or  charity,  or  with  what  arrogance  or  indifference 
our  statesmen  had  dealt  with  Germany's  claims  or  Germany's 
aspirations.  But  at  least  I  knew,  as  I  watched  those  smol- 
dering death  fires,  that  no  individual  corpse  among  them  could 
be  brought  in  guilty  of  the  crime  which  had  caused  this  war, 
and  that  not  a  soul  hovering  above  that  mass  of  meat  could 
be  made  responsible  at  the  judgment  seat  of  God.  They  had 
obeyed  orders,  they  had  marched  to  the  hymn  of  the  Father- 
land, they  believed,  as  we  did,  in  the  righteousness  of  their 
cause.  But  like  the  dead  bodies  of  the  Frenchmen  and  the 
Englishmen  who  lay  quite  close,  they  had  been  done  to  death 
by  the  villainy  of  statecraft  and  statesmen,  playing  one  race 
against  another  as  we  play  with  pawns  in  a  game  of  chess. 
The  old  witchcraft  was  better  than  this  new  witchcraft,  and 
not  so  fraudulent  in  its  power  of  duping  the  ignorant 
masses.  .  .  . 

My  guide  had  no  such  sentiment.  As  he  led  me  through 
a  fringe  of  forest  he  told  me  his  own  adventures,  and  heaped 
curses  upon  the  enemy. 


THE     TURN     OF     THE     TIDE         127 

He  had  killed  one  of  them  with  his  own  hand.  As  he  was 
walking  on  the  edge  of  a  wood  a  solitary  Uhlan  came  riding 
over  the  fields,  below  the  crest  of  a  little  hill.  He  was  one 
of  the  outposts  of  the  strong  force  in  Crepj-en-Valois,  and 
had  lost  his  way  to  that  town.  He  demanded  guidance,  and 
to  point  his  remarks  pricked  his  lance  at  the  chest  of  the 
garde  champetre. 

But  the  peasant  had  been  a  soldier,  and  he  held  a  revolver 
in  the  side  pocket  of  his  jacket.  He  answered  civilly,  but 
shot  through  his  pocket  and  killed  the  man  at  the  end  of  the 
lance.  The  Uhlan  fell  from  his  horse,  and  the  peasant  seized 
his  lance  and  carbine  as  souvenirs  of  a  happy  moment. 

But  the  moment  was  brief.  A  second  later  and  the  peas- 
ant was  sick  with  fear  for  what  he  had  done.  If  it  should 
be  discovered  that  he,  a  civilian,  had  killed  a  German  soldier, 
every  living  thing  in  his  village  would  be  put  to  the  sword, 
and  among  those  living  things  were  his  wife  and  little  ones. 

He  dragged  his  trophies  into  the  forest,  and  lay  in  hiding 
there  for  two  days  until  the  enemy  had  passed. 

Afterwards  I  saw  the  lance  —  it  reached  from  the  floor  to 
the  ceiling  of  his  cottage  —  and  for  years  to  come  in  the  vil- 
lage of  Rouville  it  will  be  the  center-piece  of  a  thrilling  tale. 

Other  peasants  joined  my  friendly  grave-digger,  and  one 
of  them  —  the  giant  of  his  village  —  told  me  of  his  own 
escape  from  death.  He  was  acting  as  the  guide  of  four 
British  officers  through  a  part  of  the  forest.  Presently  they 
stopped  to  study  their  maps ;  and  it  was  only  the  guide  who 
saw  at  the  other  end  of  the  glade  a  patrol  of  German  cavalry. 
Before  he  could  call  out  a  warning  they  had  slung  their  car- 
bines and  fired.  The  British  officers  fell  dead  without  a  cry, 
and  the  peasant  fell  like  a  dead  man  also,  rolling  into  a  ditch, 
unwounded  but  paralyzed  with  fear.  They  did  not  bother 
about  him  —  that  little  German  patrol.  They  rode  off 
laughing,  as  though  amused  with  this  jest  of  death. 

There  have  been  many  jests  like  that  —  though  I  see  no 
mirth  in  them  —  and  I  could  fill  this  chapter  with  the  stories 


128  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

I  have  heard  of  this  kind  of  death  coming  quite  quickly  in 
woods  and  fields  where  peasants  raised  their  heads  for  a 
moment  to  find  that  the  enemy  was  near.  It  is  these  isolated 
episodes  among  the  homesteads  of  France,  and  in  quiet  vil- 
lages girdled  by  silent  woods,  which  seemed  to  reveal  the 
spirit  of  war  more  even  than  the  ceaseless  fighting  on  the 
battle  front  with  its  long  lists  of  casualties. 

On  that  Sunday,  I  saw  the  trail  of  this  great  spirit  of  evil 
down  man}"^  roads. 

I  walked  not  only  among  the  dead,  but,  what  affected  me 
with  a  more  curious  emotion,  through  villages  where  a  few 
living  people  wrung  their  hands  amidst  the  ruins  of  their 
homes. 

Even  in  Crcp3^-en-Valois,  which  had  suffered  less  than 
other  towns  through  which  the  enemy  had  passed,  I  saw  a 
wilful,  wanton,  stupid  destruction  of  men  —  no  worse,  I  think, 
than  other  men,  but  with  their  passions  let  loose  and  unre-. 
strained.  They  had  entered  all  the  abandoned  houses,  and 
had  found  some  evil  pleasure  in  smashing  chairs  and  tables 
and  lamp-shades  and  babies'  perambulators,  and  the  cheap 
but  precious  ornaments  of  little  homes.  They  had  made  a 
pig-sty  of  many  a  neat  little  cottage,  and  it  seemed  as  though 
an  earthquake  had  heaped  everything  together  into  a  shape- 
less, senseless  litter.  They  entered  a  musical  instrument 
shop,  and  diverted  themselves,  naturally  enough,  with  gramo- 
phones and  mouth-organs  and  trumpets  and  violins.  But, 
unnaturally,  with  just  a  devilish  mirth,  they  had  then 
smashed  all  these  things  into  twisted  metal  and  broken 
strings.  In  one  cottage  an  old  man  and  woman,  among  the 
few  inhabitants  who  remained,  told  me  their  story. 

They  are  Alsatians,  and  speak  German,  and  with  the 
craftiness  which  accompanies  the  simplicity  of  the  French 
peasant,  made  the  most  of  this  lucky  chance.  Nine  German 
soldiers  were  quartered  upon  them,  and  each  man  demanded 
and  obtained,  nine  eggs  for  the  meal,  which  he  washed  down 
with  the  peasant's  wine.     Afterwards,  they  stole  everything 


THE     TURN     OF     THE     TIDE         129 

they  could  find,  and  with  their  comrades  swept  the  shops 
clean  of  shirts,  boots,  groceries,  and  everything  they  could 
lay  their  hands  on.  They  even  took  the  hearses  out  of  an 
undertaker's  yard  and  filled  them  with  loot.  Before  they 
left  Crepy-en-Valois,  they  fired  deliberately,  I  was  told,  upon 
Red  Cross  ambulances  containing  French  wounded. 

Yet  it  was  curious  that  the  old  Alsatian  husband  who  told 
me  some  of  these  things  had  amusement  rather  than  hatred 
in  his  voice  when  he  described  the  German  visit  before  their 
quick  retreat  from  the  advancing  British.  He  cackled  with 
laughter  at  the  remembrance  of  a  moment  of  craftiness  when 
he  crept  out  of  his  back  door  and  wrote  a  German  sentence 
on  his  front  door  in  white  chalk.  It  was  to  the  effect  that 
the  inhabitants  of  his  house  were  honest  folk  —  gute  leute  — 
who  were  to  be  left  in  peace.  .  .  .  He  laughed  in  a  high  old 
man's  treble  at  this  wily  trick.  He  laughed  again,  until  the 
tears  came  into  his  eyes,  when  he  took  me  to  a  field  where 
the  French  and  British  had  blown  up  3000  German  shells 
abandoned  by  the  enemy  at  the  time  of  their  retreat.  The 
field  was  strewn  with  great  jagged  pieces  of  metal,  and  to 
the  old  Alsatian  it  seemed  a  huge  joke  that  the  Germans  had 
had  to  leave  behind  so  much  "  food  for  the  guns."  After  all 
it  was  not  a  bad  joke  as  far  as  we  are  concerned. 

In  that  Sunday  in  September  I  saw  many  things  which 
helped  me  to  understand  the  meaning  of  war,  and  yet  after- 
wards became  vague  memories  of  blurred  impressions,  half 
obliterated  by  later  pictures.  I  remember  that  I  saw  the 
movements  of  regiments  moving  up  to  support  the  lines  of 
the  Allies,  and  the  carrying  up  of  heavy  guns  for  the  great 
battle  which  had  now  reached  its  sixth  day,  and  the  passing, 
passing,  of  Red  Cross  trains  bringing  back  the  wounded 
from  that  terrible  front  between  Vic  and  Noyon,  where  the 
trenches  were  being  filled  and  refilled  with  dead  and  wounded, 
and  regiments  of  tired  men  struggling  forward  with  heroic 
endurance  to  take  their  place  under  the  fire  of  those  shells 
which  had  already  put  their  souls  to  the  test  of  courage 


130  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

beyond  anything  that  might  be  demanded,  in  reason,  from 
the  strongest  heart. 

And  through  the  mud  and  the  water  pools,  through  the 
wet  bracken  and  undergrowth,  in  a  countryside  swept  by 
heavy  rainstorms,  I  went  tramping  with  the  grave-digger, 
along  the  way  of  the  German  retreat,  seeing  almost  in  its 
nakedness  the  black  ravage  of  war  and  its  foul  litter. 

Here  and  there  the  highway  was  lined  with  snapped  and 
twisted  telegraph  wires.  At  various  places  great  water- 
tanks  and  reservoirs  had  been  toppled  over  and  smashed 
as  though  some  diabolical  power  had  made  cockshies  of  them. 
I  peered  down  upon  the  broken  bridge  of  a  railway  line,  and 
stumbled  across  uprooted  rails  torn  from  their  sleepers  and 
hurled  about  the  track. 

My  grave-digger  plucked  my  sleeve  and  showed  me  where 
he  had  buried  a  French  cuirassier  who  had  been  shot  as  he 
kept  a  lonely  guard  at  the  edge  of  a  wood. 

He  pointed  with  his  spade  again  at  newly  made  graves  of 
French  and  British.  The  graves  were  everywhere  —  mile 
after  mile,  on  the  slopes  of  the  hills  and  in  the  fields  and  the 
valleys,  though  still  on  the  battle-ground  my  friend  had  work 
to  do. 

I  picked  up  bullets  from  shrapnels.  They  are  scattered 
like  peas  for  fifteen  miles  between  Metz  and  Mortefontaine, 
and  thicker  still  along  the  road  to  Vic.  The  jagged  pieces 
of  shell  cut  my  boots.  I  carried  one  of  the  German  helmets 
for  which  the  peasants  were  searching  among  cabbages  and 
turnips.  And  always  in  my  ears  was  the  deep  rumble  of  the 
guns,  those  great  booming  thunder-blows,  speaking  from  afar 
and  with  awful  significance  of  the  great  battle,  which  seemed 
to  be  deciding  the  destiny  of  our  civilization  and  the  new  life 
of  nations  which  was  to  come  perhaps  out  of  all  this  death. 


CHAPTER  VI 
INVASION 

BEFORE  this  year  has  ended  England  will  know  some- 
thing of  what  war  means.  In  English  country  towns 
there  will  be  many  familiar  faces  missing,  many  widows 
and  orphans,  and  many  mourning  hearts.  Dimly  and  in  a 
far-off  way,  the  people  who  have  stayed  at  home  will  under- 
stand the  misery  of  war  and  its  brutalities.  But  in  spite  of 
all  our  national  effort  to  raise  great  armies,  and  our  im- 
mense national  sacrifice  in  sending  the  best  of  our  young 
manhood  to  foreign  battlefields,  the  imagination  of  the  people 
as  a  whole  will  still  fail  to  realize  the  full  significance  of  war 
as  it  is  understood  in  France  and  Belgium.  They  will  not 
know  the  meaning  of  invasion. 

It  is  a  great  luck  to  be  born  in  an  island.  The  girdle  of 
sea  is  a  safeguard  which  gives  a  sense  of  security  to  the  whole 
psychology  of  a  race,  and  for  that  reason  there  is  a  gulf  of 
ignorance  about  the  terrors  of  war  which,  happily,  may 
never  be  bridged  by  the  collective  imagination  of  English  and 
Scottish  people.  A  continental  nation,  divided  by  a  few 
hills,  a  river,  or  a  line  on  the  map,  from  another  race  with 
other  instincts  and  ideals,  is  haunted  througliout  its  history 
by  a  sense  of  peril.  Even  in  times  of  profound  peace,  the 
thought  is  there,  in  the  background,  with  a  continual  menace. 
It  shapes  the  character  of  a  people  and  enters  into  all  their 
political  and  educational  progress.  To  keep  on  friendly 
terms  with  a  powerful  next-door  neighbor,  or  to  build  de- 
fensive works  high  enough  to  make  hostility  a  safe  game,  is 
the  life  work  of  its   statesmen   and  its   politicians.     Great 

crises  and  agitations  shake  the  nation  convulsively  when  cow- 

131 


132  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

ardice  or  treachery  or  laziness  has  allowed  that  boundary 
wall  to  crumble  or  has  made  a  breach  in  it.  The  violence  of 
the  Dreyfus  affair  was  not  so  much  due  to  a  Catholic  detesta- 
tion of  the  Jewish  race,  but  in  its  root-instincts  to  a  fear  of 
the  German  people  over  the  frontier  making  use  of  French 
corruption  to  sap  the  defensive  works  which  had  been  raised 
against  them. 

The  necessity  of  conscription  is  obvious  beyond  argument 
to  a  continental  people  still  cherishing  old  traditions  of 
nationality,  and  the  military  training  which  is  compulsory 
for  all  young  men  of  average  health,  not  only  shapes  the 
bodies  of  their  lads,  but  also  shapes  their  minds,  so  that  their 
outlook  upon  life  is  largely  different  from  that  of  an  island 
people  protected  by  the  sea.  They  know  that  they  have 
been  bom  of  women  for  one  primary  object  —  to  fight  when 
the  time  comes  in  defense  of  the  Fatherland,  to  make  one 
more  human  brick  in  the  great  wall  of  blood  and  spirit  divid- 
ing their  country  and  race  from  some  other  country  and  race. 
At  least  that  is  the  lesson  taught  them  from  the  first  to  last 
in  the  schools  and  in  the  national  assemblies,  and  there  are 
only  a  few  minds  which  are  able  to  see  another  way  of  life 
when  the  walls  of  division  may  be  removed  and  when  the  fear 
of  a  next-door  neighbor  may  be  replaced  by  friendship  and 
common  interests. 

The  difference  between  the  intellectual  instincts  of  an 
island  people  and  that  of  a  continental  race  was  the  cause 
of  the  slow  way  in  which  England  groped  her  way  to  an 
understanding  of  the  present  war,  so  that  words  of  scorn  and 
sarcasm,  a  thousand  mean  tricks  of  recruiting  sergeants  in 
high  office,  and  a  thousand  taunts  had  to  be  used  to  whip  up 
the  young  men  of  Great  Britain,  and  induce  them  to  join 
the  army.  Their  hearths  and  homes  were  not  in  immediate 
danger.  They  could  not  see  any  reasonable  prospect  of 
danger  upon  English  soil.  Their  women  were  safe.  Their 
property,  bought  on  the  hire  system  out  of  hard-earned 
wages,  was  not,  they  thought,  in  the  least  likely  to  be  smashed 


INVASION  133 

into  small  bits  or  carried  off  as  loot.  They  could  not  con- 
ceive the  idea  of  jerry-built  walls  which  enshrined  all  the 
treasures  of  their  life  suddenly  falling  with  a  crash  like  a 
house  of  cards,  and  burying  their  babies.  The  British  Ex- 
peditionary Force  which  they  were  asked  to  join  was  after  all 
only  a  sporting  party  going  out  to  foreign  fields  for  a  great 
adventure. 

In  France  there  were  no  such  illusions.  As  soon  as  war 
was  imminent  the  people  thought  of  their  frontiers,  and 
prayed  God  in  divers  ways  that  the  steel  hedges  there  were 
strong  enough  to  keep  back  the  hostile  armies  until  the  gen- 
eral call  to  the  colors  had  been  answered.  Every  able- 
bodied  man  in  France  was  ready,  whatever  the  cowardice  in 
his  heart,  to  fling  himself  upon  the  frontier  to  keep  out,  with 
his  own  body,  the  inrushing  tide  of  German  troops.  The 
memory  of  1870  had  taught  them  the  meaning  of  Invasion. 

I  saw  the  meaning  of  it  during  the  first  months  of  the  war, 
when  I  wandered  about  France.  In  the  north,  nearest  to  the 
enemy,  and  along  the  eastern  frontier,  it  was  a  great  fear 
which  spread  like  a  plague,  though  more  swiftly  and  terribly, 
in  advance  of  the  enemy's  troops.  It  made  the  bravest  men 
grow  pale  when  they  thought  of  their  women  and  children. 
It  made  the  most  callous  man  pitiful  when  he  saw  those 
women  with  their  little  ones  and  old  people,  whose  place  was 
by  the  hearthside,  trudging  along  the  highroads,  faint  with 
hunger  and  weariness,  or  pleading  for  places  in  cattle-trucks 
already  overpacked  with  fugitives,  or  wandering  about  un- 
lightcd  towns  at  night  for  any  kind  of  lodging,  and  then, 
finding  none,  sleeping  on  the  doorsteps  of  shuttered  houses 
and  under  the  poor  shelter  of  overhanging  gables. 

For  months,  in  every  part  of  France  there  were  thousands 
of  husbands  who  had  lost  their  wives  and  children,  thousands 
of  families  who  had  been  divided  hopelessly  in  the  wild  con- 
fusion of  retreats  from  a  brutal  soldiery.  They  had  disap- 
peared into  the  maelstrom  of  fugitives  —  wives,  daughters, 
sisters,  mothers,  and  old  grandmothers,  most  of  them  without 


134)  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

money  and  all  of  them  dependent  for  their  lives  upon  the 
hazard  of  luck.  Every  day  in  the  French  newspapers  there 
were  long  lists  of  inquiries. 

"  M.  Henri  Planchet  would  be  deeply  grateful  to  any  one 
who  can  inform  him  of  the  whereabouts  of  his  wife,  Suzanne, 
and  of  his  two  little  girls,  Berthe  and  Marthe,  refugees  from 
Armentiercs." 

"  Mme.  Tardieu  would  be  profoundly  grateful  for  infor- 
mation about  her  daughter,  Mme.  des  Rochers,  who  fled  from 
the  destroyed  town  of  Albert  on  October  10,  with  her  four 
children." 

Every  day  I  read  some  of  these  lists,  finding  a  tragedy  in 
every  line,  and  wondering  whether  any  of  these  missing  peo- 
ple were  among  those  whom  I  had  met  in  the  guard  vans  of 
troop-trains,  huddled  among  their  bundles,  or  on  wayside 
platforms,  or  in  the  long  columns  of  retreating  inhabitants 
from  a  little  town  deep  in  a  wooded  valley  below  the  hills 
where  Germans  guns  were  vomiting  their  shrapnel. 

Imagine  such  a  case  in  England.  A  man  leaves  his  office 
in  London  and  takes  the  train  to  Guildford,  where  his  wife 
and  children  are  waiting  supper  for  him.  At  Weybridge 
the  train  comes  to  a  dead-halt.  The  guard  runs  up  to  the 
engine-driver,  and  comes  back  to  say  that  the  tunnel  has 
been  blown  up  by  the  enemy.  It  is  reported  that  Guildford 
and  all  the  villages  around  have  been  invaded.  Families 
flying  from  Guildford  describe  the  bombardment  of  the  town. 
A  part  of  it  is  in  flames.  The  Guildhall  is  destroyed. 
Many  inhabitants  have  been  killed.  Most  of  the  others  have 
fled. 

The  man  who  was  going  home  to  supper  wants  to  set  out 
to  find  his  .wife  and  children.  His  friends  hold  him  back  in 
spite  of  his  struggles.  "  You  are  mad ! "  they  shout. 
"  Mad !  "  .  .  .  He  has  no  supper  at  home  that  night.  His 
supper  and  his  home  havfc  been  burned  to  cinders.  For  weeks 
he  advertises  in  the  papers  for  the  whereabouts  of  his  wife 


INVASION  135 

and  babes.  Nobody  can  tell  him.  He  does  not  know 
whether  they  are  dead  or  alive. 

There  were  thousands  of  such  cases  in  France.  I  have 
seen  this  tragedy  —  a  man  weeping  for  his  wife  and  children 
swallowed  up  into  the  unknown  after  the  destruction  of 
Fives,  near  Lille.  A  new-born  babe  was  expected.  On  the 
first  day  of  life  it  would  receive  a  baptism  of  fire.  Who 
could  tell  this  distracted  man  whether  the  mother  or  child 
were  alive.'' 

There  were  many  villages  in  France  around  Lille  and 
Armentieres,  Amiens  and  Arras,  and  over  a  wide  stretch  of 
country  in  Artois  and  Picardy,  where,  in  spite  of  all  weari- 
ness, women  who  lay  down  beside  their  sleeping  babes  could 
find  no  sleep  for  themselves.  For  who  could  say  what  the 
night  would  bring  forth.''  Perhaps  a  patrol  of  Uhlans,  who 
shot  peasants  like  rabbits  as  they  ran  across  the  fields,  and 
who  demanded  Avine,  and  more  wine,  until  in  the  madness  of 
drink  they  began  to  burn  and  destroy  for  mere  lust  of  ruin. 
So  it  was  at  Senlis,  at  Sermaize,  and  in  many  villages  in  the 
region  through  which  I  passed. 

It  was  never  possible  to  tell  the  enemy's  next  move.  His 
cavalry  came  riding  swiftly  far  from  the  main  lines  of  the 
hostile  troops,  and  owing  to  the  reticence  of  official  news,  the 
inhabitants  of  a  town  or  village  found  themselves  engulfed 
in  the  tide  of  battle  before  they  guessed  their  danger.  They 
were  trapped  by  the  sudden  tearing-up  of  railway  lines  and 
blowing-up  of  bridges,  as  I  was  nearly  trapped  one  day  when 
the  Germans  cut  a  line  a  few  hundred  yards  away  from  my 
train. 

Yet  the  terror  was  as  great  when  no  Germans  were  seen, 
and  no  shells  heard.  It  was  enough  that  they  were  coming. 
They  had  been  reported  —  often  falsely  —  across  distant 
hills.  So  the  exodus  began  and,  with  perambulators  laden 
with  bread  and  apples,  in  any  kind  of  vehicle  —  even  in  a 
hearse  —  drawn  by  poor  beasts  too  bad  for  army  requisi- 


136  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

tions,  ladies  of  quality  left  their  chateaux  and  drove  in  the 
throng  with  peasant  women  from  whitewashed  cottages. 
Often  in  a  little  while  both  the  chateau  and  the  cottage  were 
buried  in  the  same  heap  of  ruins. 

In  a  week  or  two,  the  enemy  was  beaten  back  from  some 
of  these  places,  and  then  the  most  hardy  of  the  townsfolk 
returned  "  home."  I  saw  some  of  them  going  home  —  at 
Senlis,  at  Sermaize,  and  other  places.  They  came  back 
doubtful  of  what  they  would  find,  but  soon  they  stood  stupe- 
fied in  front  of  some  charred  timbers  which  were  once  their 
house.  They  did  not  weep,  but  just  stared  in  a  dazed  way. 
They  picked  over  the  ashes  and  found  burned  bits  of  former 
treasures  —  the  baby's  cot,  the  old  grandfather's  chair,  the 
parlor  clock.  Or  they  went  into  houses  still  standing  neat 
and  perfect,  and  found  that  some  insanity  of  rage  had 
smashed  up  all  their  household,  as  though  baboons  had  been 
at  play  or  fighting  through  the  rooms.  The  chest  of 
drawers  had  been  looted  or  its  contents  tumbled  out  upon 
the  floor.  Broken  glasses,  bottles,  jugs,  were  mixed  up  with 
a  shattered  violin,  the  medals  of  a  grandfather  who  fought 
in  '70,  the  children's  broken  toys,  clothes,  foodstuff,  and 
picture  frames.  I  saw  many  of  such  houses  after  the  coming 
and  going  of  the  German  soldiers. 

Even  for  a  correspondent  in  search  of  a  vantage  ground 
from  which  he  might  see  something  of  this  war,  with  a  rea- 
sonable chance  of  being  able  to  tell  the  story  afterwards,  the 
situation  in  France  during  those  early  days  was  somewhat 
perilous. 

It  is  all  very  w'ell  to  advance  towards  the  fighting  lines 
when  the  enemy  is  opposed  by  allied  forces  in  a  known  posi- 
tion, but  it  is  a  quite  different  thing  to  wander  about  a  coun- 
tryside with  only  the  vaguest  idea  of  the  direction  in  which 
the  enemy  may  appear,  and  with  the  disagreeable  thought 
that  he  may  turn  up  suddenly  round  the  corner  after  cutting 
off  one's  line  of  retreat.  That  was  my  experience  on  more 
than  one  day  of  adventure  when  I  went  wandering  with  those 


INVASION  137 

two  friends  of  mine,  whom  I  have  alluded  to  as  the  Strategist 
and  the  Philosopher.  Not  all  the  strategy  of  the  one  nor  the 
philosophy  of  the  other  could  save  us  from  unpleasant  mo- 
ments when  we  blundered  close  to  the  lines  of  an  unexpected 
enemy. 

That  was  our  experience  on  an  early  day  in  October,  when 
we  decided  to  go  to  Bethune,  which  seemed  an  interesting 
place  in  the  war-zone. 

It  may  seem  strange  in  England  that  railway  trains  should 
still  be  running  in  the  ordinary  way,  according  to  the  time- 
tables of  peace,  in  these  directions,  and  that  civilians  should 
have  been  allowed  to  take  their  tickets  without  any  hint  as 
to  the  danger  at  the  journey's  end.  But  in  spite  of  the 
horror  of  invasion,  French  railway  officials  showed  an  ex- 
traordinary sang-froid  and  maintained  their  service,  even 
when  they  knew  that  their  lines  might  be  cut,  and  their  sta- 
tions captured,  within  an  hour  or  two.  Ignorance  also 
helped  their  courage  and,  not  knowing  the  whereabouts  of 
the  enemy  even  as  well  as  I  did,  they  ran  their  trains  to  places 
already  threatened  by  advancing  squadrons. 

On  this  October  day,  for  example,  there  was  no  sign  of 
surprise  on  the  part  of  the  buxom  lady  behind  the  guicliet 
of  the  booking-office  when  I  asked  for  a  ticket  to  Bethune, 
although  there  had  been  heavy  fighting  in  that  district  only 
a  few  hours  before,  at  the  end  of  a  great  battle  extending 
over  several  days. 

In  the  train  itself  were  several  commercial  gentlemen,  on 
their  way  to  Lille,  by  way  of  the  junction  at  Arques,  where 
they  had  to  change,  and  with  two  or  three  French  soldiers, 
and  a  lady  entirely  calm  and  self-possessed,  tliey  discussed 
the  possibility  of  getting  into  a  city  round  which  the  German 
cavalry  were  reported  to  be  sweeping  in  a  great  tide.  An- 
other man  who  entered  into  conversation  with  me  was  going 
to  Bethune.  He  had  a  wife  and  family  there  and  hoped  they 
were  safe.  It  was  only  by  a  sudden  thoughtfulness  in  his 
eyes  that  I  could  guess  that  behind  that  hope  was  a  secret 


138  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

fear,  which  he  did  not  express  even  to  himself.  We  might 
have  been  a  little  party  of  people  traveling,  say,  between 
Surbiton  and  Wej'bridge  on  an  autumn  afternoon,  when  the 
golf  ball  flies  across  the  links.  Not  one  of  them  showed  the 
least  sign  of  anxiety,  the  least  consciousness  of  peril  close  at 
hand. 

Looking  out  of  the  carriage  window  I  saw  that  trenches 
had  been  dug  in  all  the  adjacent  fields,  and  that  new  trenches 
were  being  made  hastily  but  efficiently  by  gangs  of  soldiers, 
who  had  taken  off  their  blue  coats  for  once,  and  were  toiling 
cheerily  at  their  task.  In  all  the  villages  we  passed  were 
battalions  of  infantry  guarding  the  railway  bridges  and  level 
crossings.  Patrols  of  cavalry  rode  slowly  down  the  roads. 
Here  and  there  some  of  them  were  dismounted,  with  their 
horses  tethered,  and  from  behind  the  cover  of  farmhouses 
or  haystacks,  looked  across  the  country,  with  their  carbines 
slung  across  their  shoulders,  as  though  waiting  for  any 
Uhlans  that  might  appear  that  way. 

All  around  us  was  the  noise  of  guns,  firing  in  great  salvos 
across  the  hills,  ten  miles  or  more  away.  Suddenly,  as  we 
approached  the  junction  at  Arques,  there  was  an  explosion 
which  sounded  very  close  to  us ;  and  the  train  came  to  a  dead 
stop  on  grinding  brakes. 

"  What's  that?  "  asked  a  man  in  the  carriage,  sharply. 

I  thrust  my  head  out  of  the  carriage  window  and  saw  that 
all  along  the  train  other  faces  were  staring  out.  The  guard 
was  running  down  the  platform.  The  stationmaster  was 
shouting  to  the  engine-driver.  In  a  moment  or  two  we  began 
to  back,  and  kept  traveling  backwards  until  we  were  out  of 
the  station.  .  .  .  The  line  had  just  been  blown  up  beyond 
Arques  by  a  party  of  Uhlans,  and  we  were  able  to  thank  our 
stars  that  we  had  stopped  in  time.  We  could  get  no  nearer 
to  Bethune,  over  which  next  day  the  tide  of  war  had  rolled. 
I  wondered  what  had  happened  to  the  wife  and  children  of  the 
man  who  was  in  the  carriage  with  me. 

At  Aire-sur-Lys  there  were  groups  of  women  and  children 


INVASION  139 

who,  like  so  many  others  in  those  days,  had  abandoned  their 
houses  and  left  all  they  had  in  the  world  save  a  few  bundles 
of  clothes  and  baskets  of  food.  I  asked  them  what  they 
would  do  when  the  food  was  finished. 

"  There  will  always  be  a  little  charity,  m'sieur,"  said  one 
woman,  "  and  at  least  my  children  are  safe." 

After  the  first  terror  of  the  invasion  those  women  were 
calm  and  showed  astounding  courage  and  resignation. 

It  was  more  than  pitiful  to  see  the  refugees  on  the  roads 
from  Hazebrouck.  There  was  a  constant  stream  of  them 
in  those  two  cross-currents,  and  they  came  driving  slowly 
along  in  bakers'  carts  and  butchers'  carts,  with  covered 
hoods,  in  farm  carts  loaded  up  with  several  families  or 
trudging  along  with  perambulators  and  wheelbarrows.  The 
women  were  weary.  Many  of  them  had  babies  in  their  arms. 
The  elder  children  held  on  to  their  mother's  skirts  or 
tramped  along  together,  hand  in  hand.  But  there  was  no 
trace  of  tears.  I  heard  no  wailing  cry.  Some  of  them 
seemed  utterly  indifferent  to  this  retreat  from  home.  They 
had  gone  beyond  the  need  of  tears. 

From  one  of  these  women,  a  lady  named  Mme.  Duterque, 
who  had  left  Arras  with  a  small  boy  and  girl,  I  heard  the 
story  of  her  experiences  in  the  bombarded  town.  There  were 
hundreds  of  women  who  had  similar  stories,  but  this  one  is 
typical  enough  of  all  those  individual  experiences  of  women 
who  had  quite  suddenly,  and  almost  without  warning,  found 
themselves  victims  of  the  Invasion. 

She  was  in  her  dressing-room  in  one  of  the  old  houses  of 
the  Grande  Place  in  Arras,  when  at  half-past  nine  in  the 
morning  the  first  shell  burst  over  the  town  very  close  to  her 
own  dwelling-place.  For  days  there  had  been  distant  firing 
on  the  heights  round  Arras,  but  now  this  shell  came  with 
a  different,  closer,  more  terrible  sound. 

"  It  seemed  to  annihilate  me  for  a  moment,"  said  Mme. 
Duterque.  "  It  stunned  all  my  senses  with  a  frightful  shock. 
A    few    moments    later    I    recovered    myself    and    thought 


140  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

anxiously  of  my  little  girl  who  had  gone  to  school  as  usual  a 
few  streets  away.  I  was  overjoyed  when  she  came  trotting 
home,  quite  unafraid,  although  by  this  time  the  shells  were 
falling  in  various  parts  of  the  town." 

On  the  previous  night  Mme.  Duterque  had  already  made 
preparations  in  case  the  town  should  be  bombarded.  Her 
house,  like  most  of  the  old  houses  in  AiTas,  had  a  great  cellar, 
with  a  vaulted  roof,  almost  as  strong  as  a  castle  dungeon. 
She  had  stocked  it  with  a  supply  of  sardines  and  bread  and 
other  provisions,  and  as  soon  as  she  had  her  little  daughter 
safe  indoors  again  took  her  children  and  the  nurse  down  to 
this  subterranean  hiding-place,  where  there  was  greater 
safety.  The  cave,  as  she  called  it,  was  dimly  lighted  with  a 
paraffin  lamp,  and  was  very  damp  and  chilly,  but  it  was 
good  to  be  there  in  this  hiding-place,  for  at  regular  intervals 
she  could  hear  the  terrible  buzzing  noises  of  a  shell,  like  some 
gigantic  hornet,  followed  by  its  exploding  boom;  and  then, 
more  awful  still,  the  crash  of  a  neighboring  house  falling 
into  ruins. 

"  Strange  to  say,"  said  Mme.  Duterque,  "  after  my  first 
shock  I  had  no  sense  of  fear,  and  listened  only  with  an 
intense  interest  to  the  noise  of  these  shells,  estimating  their 
distance  by  their  sound.  I  could  tell  quite  easily  when  they 
were  close  overhead,  and  when  they  fell  in  another  part  of 
the  town,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  could  almost  tell  which 
of  my  friends'  houses  had  been  hit.  My  children,  too,  were 
strangely  fearless.  They  seemed  to  think  it  an  exciting 
adventure  to  be  here  in  the  great  cellar,  making  picnic  meals 
by  the  light  of  a  dim  lamp.  My  little  boy  amused  him- 
self by  playing  carres  (hop-scotch),  and  my  daughter  was 
very  cheerful.  Still,  after  a  little  while  we  suffered.  I  had 
forgotten  to  bring  down  water  or  wine,  and  we  also  craved 
for  something  more  comforting  than  cold  sardines.  In  spite 
of  the  noise  of  houses  falling  into  ruins  —  and  at  any  mo- 
ment might  fall  above  my  head  —  I  went  upstairs  and  began 
to  cook  some  macaroni.     I  had  to  retreat  in  a  hurry,  as  a 


INVASION  141 

shell  burst  quite  close  to  my  house,  and  for  a  moment  I 
thought  that  I  should  be  buried  under  my  own  roof.  But  I 
went  up  again  in  one  of  the  intervals  of  silence,  found  the 
macaroni  cooked  to  a  turn  and  even  ventured  to  peep  out  of 
doors.  There  I  saAV  a  dreadful  sight.  The  whole  of  the 
Grande  Place  was  littered  with  broken  roofs  and  shattered 
walls,  and  several  of  the  houses  were  burning  furiously. 
From  other  parts  of  the  town  there  came  up  great  volumes 
of  smoke  and  the  red  glare  of  flames." 

For  three  days  Mme.  Duterque  kept  to  her  cellar.  Un- 
known to  herself,  her  husband,  who  had  come  from  Boulogne 
to  rescue  her,  was  watching  the  battle  from  one  of  the  heights 
outside  the  town,  which  he  was  forbidden  to  enter  by  the 
soldiers.  On  a  Thursday  morning  she  resolved  to  leave  the 
shelter  of  her  underground  vault.  News  had  been  brought 
to  her  by  a  daring  neighbor  that  the  Germans  had  worked 
round  by  the  railway  station  and  might  enter  the  town. 

"  I  had  no  fear  of  German  shells,"  she  said,  "  but  I  had  a 
great  fear  of  German  officers  and  soldiers.  Imagine  my  fate 
if  I  had  been  caught  by  them,  with  my  little  daughter.  For 
the  first  time  I  was  filled  with  a  horrible  fear,  and  I  decided 
to  fly  from  Arras  at  all  costs." 

With  her  children  and  the  nurse,  she  made  her  way 
through  the  streets,  above  which  the  shells  were  still  crash- 
ing, and  glanced  with  horror  at  all  the  destruction  about  her. 
The  Hotel  de  Ville  was  practically  destroyed,  though  at  that 
time  the  famous  belfry  still  stood  erect  above  the  ruined 
town,  chiming  out  the  hours  of  this  tragedy. 

Mme.  Duterque  told  me  her  story  with  great  simplicity 
and  without  any  self-consciousness  of  her  fine  courage.  She 
was  only  one  of  those  thousands  of  women  in  France  who, 
with  a  spiritual  courage  beyond  one's  understanding,  endured 
the  horrors  of  this  war.  It  was  good  to  talk  with  them,  and 
I  was  left  wondering  at  such  a  spirit. 

It  was  with  many  of  these  fugitives  that  I  made  my  way 
back.     Away  in  the  neighborhood  of  Hazebrouck  the  guns 


142  THE     SOUL     OF    THE     WAR 

were  still  booming,  and  across  the  fields  the  outposts  of 
French  cavalry  were  waiting  for  the  enemy. 

It  was  better  for  women  and  children  to  be  in  Arras  under 
continual  shell-fire  than  in  some  of  those  villages  along  the 
valleys  of  the  Marne  and  the  Meuse  and  in  the  Department 
of  the  Seine,  through  which  the  Germans  passed  on  their  first 
march  across  the  French  frontier.  It  was  a  nicer  thing  to 
be  killed  by  a  clean  piece  of  shell  than  to  suffer  the  foulness 
of  men  whose  passions  had  been  unleashed  by  drink  and  the 
devil  and  the  madness  of  the  first  experience  of  war,  and  by 
fear  which  made  them  cruel  as  beasts. 

I  think  fear  was  at  the  heart  of  a  good  deal  of  those 
atrocious  acts  by  which  the  German  troops  stained  the  honor 
of  their  race  in  the  first  phases  of  the  war.  Advancing  into 
a  hostile  country,  among  a  people  whom  they  knew  to  be 
reckless  in  courage  and  of  a  proud  spirit,  the  generals  and 
high  officers  were  obsessed  with  the  thought  of  peasant  war- 
fare, rifle  shots  from  windows,  murders  of  soldiers  billeted 
in  farms,  spies  everywhere,  and  the  peril  of  franc-tireurs, 
goading  their  troops  on  the  march.  Their  text-books  had 
told  them  that  all  this  was  to  be  expected  from  the  French 
people  and  could  only  be  stamped  out  by  ruthlessness. 
The  proclamations  posted  on  the  walls  of  invaded  towns 
reveal  fear  as  well  as  cruelty.  The  mayor  and  prominent 
citizens  Avere  to  surrender  themselves  as  hostages.  If  any 
German  soldiers  were  killed,  terrible  reprisals  would  be 
exacted.  If  there  were  any  attempt  on  the  part  of  the 
citizens  to  convey  information  to  the  French  troops,  or  to 
disobey  the  regulations  of  the  German  commander,  their 
houses  would  be  burned  and  their  property  seized,  and  their 
lives  would  pay  the  forfeit.  These  bald-headed  officers  in 
pointed  helmets,  so  scowling  behind  their  spectacles,  had 
fear  in  their  hearts  and  concealed  it  by  cruelty. 

When  such  official  proclamations  were  posted  up  on  the 
walls  of  French  villages,  it  is  no  wonder  that  the  subordinate 
officers  and  their  men  were  nervous  of  the  dangers  suggested 


INVASION  143 

in  those  documents,  and  found  perliaps  without  any  con- 
scious dishonesty  clear  proof  of  civilian  plots  against  them, 
A  shot  rang  out  down  a  village  street.  "  The  peasants  are 
firing  on  us !  "  shouted  a  German  soldier  of  neurotic  tem- 
perament. "  Shoot  them  at  sight ! "  said  an  officer  who 
had  learned  his  lesson  of  ruthlessness.  "  Burn  these  wasps 
out!     Lieber  Gott,  we  will  teach  them  a  pretty  lesson!  " 

They  had  all  the  material  for  teaching  the  pretty  lessons 
of  war  —  inflammable  tablets  which  would  make  a  house  blaze 
in  less  than  five  minutes  after  they  had  been  strewn  about 
the  floors  and  touched  by  a  lighted  match  (I  have  a  few 
specimens  of  the  stuff")  —  incendiary  bombs  which  worked 
even  more  rapidly,  torches  for  setting  fire  to  old  barns  and 
thatched  roofs.  In  the  wonderful  equipment  of  the  German 
army  in  the  field  this  material  of  destruction  had  not  been 
forgotten  and  it  was  used  in  many  little  towns  and  villages 
where  German  soldiers  heard  real  or  imaginary  shots,  sus- 
pected betrayal  from  any  toothless  old  peasant  and  found 
themselves  in  the  grip  of  fear  because  these  French  women, 
these  old  men  of  the  farm  and  the  workshop,  and  even  the 
children,  stared  at  them  as  they  passed  with  contemptuous 
eyes  and  kept  an  uncomfortable  silence  even  when  spoken 
to  with  cheerful  Teuton  greetings,  and  did  not  hide  the  loath- 
ing of  their  souls.  All  this  silence  of  village  people,  all  these 
black  looks,  seemed  to  German  soldiers  like  an  evil  spell  about 
them.  It  got  upon  their  nerves  and  made  them  angry. 
They  had  come  to  enjoy  the  fruits  of  victory  in  France,  or 
at  best  the  fruits  of  life  before  death  came.  So  these  women 
would  not  smile,  eh?  Nor  give  their  kisses  nor  their  love 
with  amiability?  Well,  a  German  soldier  would  have  his 
kisses  even  though  he  had  to  hold  a  shrieking  woman  to  his 
lips.  He  would  take  his  love  even  though  he  had  to  kill  the 
creature  who  refused  it.  These  French  women  were  not  so 
austere,  as  a  rule,  in  times  of  peace.  If  they  would  not  bo 
fondled  they  should  be  forced.  Herr  Gott !  the}'  should 
know  their  masters. 


144  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

At  the  little  town  of  Rebais  in  the  department  of  Seine-et- 
Mame  there  was  a  pretty  French  woman  who  kept  a  grocer's 
shop  and  did  not  care  for  the  way  in  which  some  German 
soldiers  made  free  with  her  biscuits  and  sweetmeats.  She 
was  a  proud  and  fearless  young  woman,  and  when  the  soldiers 
grinned  at  her  and  tried  to  put  their  arms  about  her  she 
struck  them  and  called  them  unpleasant  names  and  drew 
an  open  knife.  So  she  wanted  her  lesson  .'*  Well,  she  had  a 
soft  white  neck,  and  if  they  could  not  put  their  arms  about 
it  they  would  put  a  rope  round  it  and  hang  her  with  her 
pride.  But  she  was  strong  and  quick  as  well  as  proud.  She 
cut  their  rope  with  her  knife  and  fought  like  a  wild  thing. 
So  they  slashed  at  her  with  their  fists  and  bruised  all  her 
beauty  by  the  time  one  of  their  officers  came  in  and  ordered 
them  away.  No  one  would  court  her  after  the  lesson  they 
had  given  her. 

At  Saint-Denis-cn-Rebais,  on  September  7,  an  Uhlan  who 
was  eager  for  a  woman's  love  saw  another  pretty  woman  who 
tried  to  hide  from  him.  There  was  a  mother-in-law  with 
her,  and  a  little  son,  eight  years  of  age.  But  in  war  time 
one  has  to  make  haste  to  seize  one's  victim  or  one's  loot. 
Death  is  waiting  round  the  corner.  Under  the  cover  of  his 
rifle  —  he  had  a  restless  finger  on  the  trigger  —  the  Uhlan 
bade  the  woman  strip  herself  before  him.  She  had  not  the 
pride  or  the  courage  of  the  other  woman.  She  did  not  want 
to  die,  because  of  that  small  boy  who  stared  with  horror  in 
his  eyes.  The  mother-in-law  clasped  the  child  close  and  hid 
those  wide  staring  eyes  in  her  skirts,  and  turned  her  own  face 
away  from  a  scene  of  bestial  violence,  moaning  to  the  sound 
of  her  daughter's  cries. 

At  the  town  of  Coulommiers  on  September  6  a  German 
soldier  came  to  the  door  of  a  small  house  where  a  woman  and 
her  husband  were  sitting  with  two  little  children,  trying  to 
hide  their  fear  of  this  invasion  of  German  troops.  It  was 
half-past  nine  in  the  evening  and  almost  dark,  except  for  a 
glow   in  the   sky.     The   soldier  was   like  a  shadow  on  the 


INVASION  145 

threshold  until  he  came  in,  and  they  saw  a  queer  light  in  his 
eyes.  He  was  very  courteous,  though  rather  gruff  in  his 
speech.  He  asked  the  husband  to  go  outside  in  the  street 
to  find  one  of  his  comrades.  The  man,  afraid  to  refuse,  left 
the  room  on  this  errand,  but  before  he  had  gone  far  heard 
piercing  cries.  It  was  his  wife's  voice,  screaming  in  terror. 
He  rushed  back  again  and  saw  the  German  soldier  struggling 
with  his  wife.  Hearing  her  husband's  shout  of  rage,  the 
soldier  turned,  seized  his  rifle,  and  clubbed  the  man  into  an 
adjoining  room,  where  he  stayed  Avith  the  two  little  children 
who  had  fled  there,  trying  to  soothe  them  in  their  fright  and 
listening,  with  madness  in  his  brain,  to  his  wife's  agony 
through  the  open  door  a  yard  away.  The  husband  was  a 
coward,  it  seems.  But  supposing  he  had  flung  himself  upon 
the  soldier  and  strangled  him,  or  cut  his  throat?  We  know 
what  would  have  happened  in  the  village  of  Coulommiers. 

On  September  7  ten  German  horsemen  rode  into  the  farm 
of  Lamermont,  in  the  commune  of  Lisle-en-Barrois.  They 
were  in  good  humor,  and  having  drunk  plenty  of  fresh  milk, 
left  the  farmhouse  in  a  friendly  way.  Shortly  after  their 
departure,  when  Farmer  Elly  and  his  friend,  the  sieur  Jave- 
lot,  breathed  more  easily  and  thanked  God  because  the 
danger  had  passed,  some  rifle-shots  rang  out.  Somewhere 
or  other  a  dreadful  thing  was  happening.  A  new  danger 
came  to  the  farm  at  Lamermont,  with  thirty  men  of  a  dif- 
ferent patrol,  who  did  not  ask  for  milk  but  blood.  They 
accused  the  farm  people  of  having  killed  a  German  soldier, 
and  in  spite  of  the  protests  of  the  two  men,  who  had  been 
sitting  quietly  in  the  kitchen,  they  were  shot  in  the  yard. 

At  Triaucourt  the  Germans  were  irritated  by  the  behavior 
of  a  young  girl  named  Mile.  Helene  Proces,  who  was  bold 
enough  to  lodge  a  complaint  to  one  of  their  officers  about  a 
soldier  who  had  tried  to  make  love  to  her  in  the  German  way. 
It  was  a  fine  thing  if  German  soldiers  were  to  be  punished 
for  a  little  sport  like  that  in  time  of  war!  "Burn  them 
out !  "  said  one  of  the  men.     On  a  cold  autumn  night  a  bon- 


146  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

fire  would  warm  things  up  a  little.  ...  It  was  the  house  of 
M.   Jules   Gaude   which   started  the  bonfire.     It  blazed   so 
quickly  after  the  torch  had  touched  his  thatch  that  he  had 
to  leap  through  the  flames  to  save  himself,  and  as  he  ran  the 
soldiers  shot  him  dead.     When  the  houses  were  burning  the 
Germans  had  a  great  game  shooting  at  the  people  who  rushed 
about    the    streets.     A    boy    of    seventeen,    named    George 
Lecourtier,   was   killed  as  he   thrust  his  way   through  the 
flames.     A  gentleman  named  Alfred  Lallemand  —  his  name 
ought  to  have  saved  him  —  was  chased  by  some  soldiers  when 
he  fled  for  refuge  to  the  kitchen  of  his  fellow-citizen  Taute- 
lier,  and  shot  there  on  his  hearth-side.     His  friend  had  three 
bullet-wounds  in  the  hand  with  which  he  had  tried  to  protect 
the  hunted  man.     Mile.  Proces,  the  young  girl  who  had  made 
the  complaint  which  led  to  this  trouble,  fled  into  the  garden 
with  her  mother  and  her  grandmother  and  an  aunt  named 
Mile.  Mennehard,  who  was  eighty-one  years  old.     The  girl 
was  able  to  climb  over  the  hedge  into  the  neighbor's  garden, 
where  she  hid  among  the  cabbages  like  a  frightened  kitten. 
But  the  old  people  could  not  go  so  fast,  and  as  they  tried  to 
climb  the  hedge  they  were  shot  down  by  flying  bullets.     The 
cure  of  the  village  crept  out  into  the  darkness  to  find  the 
bodies  of  these  ladies,  who  had  been  his  friends.     With  both 
hands  he  scooped  up  the  scattered  brains  of  Mile.  Mennehard, 
the  poor  old  dame  of  eighty-one,  and  afterwards  brought  her 
body  back  into  her  house,  where  he  wept  at  this  death  and 
destruction  which  had  made  a  hell  of  his  little  village  in  which 
peace  had  reigned  so  long.     And  while  he  wept  merry  music 
played,  and  its  lively  notes  rattled  out  into  the  quiet  night 
from  an  open  window  quite  close  to  where  dead  bodies  lay* 
The  German  soldiers  enjoyed  themselves  that  night  in  Triau- 
court.     Like  so  many  Neros  on  a  smaller  scale,  they  played 
and   sang   while   flames   leaped   up   on   either   side   of   them. 
Thirty-five  houses  in  this  village  were  burned  to  cinders  after 
their  old  timbers  had  blazed  fiercely  with  flying  sparks  which 
sparkled  above  the  helmets  of  drunken  soldiery.     An  old  man 


INVASION  147 

of  seventy  named  Jean  Lecourtier,  and  a  baby  who  had  been 
only  two  months  in  this  strange  world  of  ours  were  roasted 
to  death  in  the  furnace  of  the  village.  A  farmer  named 
Igier,  hearing  the  stampede  of  his  cattle,  tried  to  save  these 
poor  beasts,  but  he  had  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  soldiers  who 
shot  at  him  as  he  stumbled  through  the  smoke,  missing  him 
only  by  a  hair's-breadth,  so  that  he  escaped  as  by  a  miracle, 
with  five  holes  in  his  clothes.  The  village  priest,  Pere  Viller, 
leaving  the  body  of  his  old  friend,  went  with  the  courage  of 
despair  to  the  Duke  of  Wurtemburg,  who  had  his  lodging 
near  by,  and  complained  to  him  passionately  of  all  these  out- 
rages. The  Duke  of  Wurtemburg  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"  Que  voulez-vous  ?  "  he  said.  "  We  have  bad  soldiers,  like 
you  have ! " 

At  Montmirail  a  man  named  Fran9ois  Fontaine  lived  with 
his  widowed  daughter,  Mme.  Naude,  and  his  little  grandchild 
Juliette.  A  German  non-commissioned  officer  demanded 
lodging  at  the  house,  and  on  the  night  of  September  5,  when 
all  was  quiet,  he  came  undressed  into  the  young  widow's 
room  and,  seizing  her  roughly,  tried  to  drag  her  into  his  own 
chamber.  She  cried  and  struggled  so  that  her  father  came 
running  to  her,  trembling  with  fear  and  rage.  The  Unter- 
ofpzier  seems  to  have  given  some  signal,  perhaps  by  the 
blowing  of  a  whistle.  It  is  certain  that  immediately  after 
the  old  man  had  left  his  room  fifteen  or  twenty  German 
soldiers  burst  into  the  house  and  dragged  him  out  into  the 
street,  where  they  shot  him  dead.  At  that  moment  the  child 
Juliette  opened  her  bedroom  window,  looking  out  into  the 
darkness  at  this  shadow  scene.  It  was  not  Romeo  but  Death 
who  called  this  little  Juliette.  A  bullet  hit  her  in  the 
stomach,  and  twenty-four  hours  later  she  died  in  agony. 

I  need  not  add  to  these  stories,  nor  plunge  deeper  into  the 
vile  obscenity  of  all  those  crimes  which  in  the  months  of 
August  and  September  set  hell  loose  in  the  beautiful  old  vil- 
lages of  France  along  a  front  of  five  hundred  miles.  The 
facts  are  monotonous  in  the  repetition  of  their  horror,  and 


148  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

one's  imagination  is  not  helped  but  stupefied  by  long  records 
of  outrages  upon  defenseless  women,  with  indiscriminate 
shooting  down  village  streets,  with  unarmed  peasants  killed 
as  they  trudged  across  their  fields  or  burned  in  their  own 
homesteads,  with  false  accusations  against  innocent  villagers, 
so  that  hostages  were  collected  and  shot  in  groups  as  a  pun- 
ishment for  alleged  attacks  upon  German  soldiers,  with  old 
French  chateaux  looted  of  all  their  treasures  by  German 
officers  in  search  of  souvenirs  and  trophies  of  victory  for  their 
women  folk,  and  with  drunken  orgies  in  which  men  of  decent 
breeding  became  mere  animals  inflamed  with  lust. 

The  memory  of  those  things  has  burned  deep  into  the 
brains  of  the  French  people,  so  deep  that  in  some  cases  there 
is  the  fire  of  madness  there. 

In  a  small  chateau  in  France  an  English  friend  of  mine 
serving  with  a  volunteer  ambulance  column  with  the  French 
troops  on  the  Meuse  was  sitting  at  ease  one  night  with  some 
of  his  comrades  and  fellow-countrymen.  The  conversation 
turned  to  England,  because  April  was  there,  and  after  ten 
months  of  war  the  thoughts  of  these  men  yearned  back  to 
their  homes.  They  spoke  of  their  mothers  and  wives  and 
children.  One  man  had  a  pretty  daughter,  and  read  a  piece 
of  her  latest  letter,  and  laughed  at  her  gay  little  jests  and  her 
descriptions  of  the  old  pony  and  the  dogs  and  the  antics  of 
a  black  kitten.  Other  men  gave  themselves  away  and  revealed 
the  sentiment  which  as  a  rule  Englishmen  hide.  In  the  room 
was  a  French  officer,  who  sat  very  still,  listening  to  these 
stories.  The  candles  were  burning  dim  on  the  table  when  he 
spoke  at  last  in  a  strange,  hard  voice : 

"  It  is  good  for  you  Englishmen  when  you  go  back  home. 
Those  who  are  not  killed  out  here  will  be  very  happy  to  see 
their  women  again.  You  do  not  want  to  die,  because  of  that. 
...  If  I  were  to  go  home  now,  gentlemen,  I  should  not  be 
happy.  I  should  find  my  wife  and  my  daughter  both  expect- 
ing babies  whose  fathers  are  German  soldiers.  .  .  .  England 
has  not  suffered  invasion." 


INVASION  149 

The  most  complete  destruction  I  saw  in  France  was  in 
Champagne,  when  I  walked  through  places  which  had  been 
the   villages   of   Sermaizc,   Heiltz-le-Muurupt,   Blesmes,   and 
Huiron.     Sermaize  was  utterly  wiped  out.     As  far  as  I  could 
see,   not  one  house  was   left   standing.     Not   one  wall  was 
spared.     It  was  laid  flat  upon  the  earth,  with  only  a  few 
charred  chimney-stacks  sticking  out  of  the  piles  of  bricks  and 
cinders.     Strange,  piteous  relics  of  pretty  dwelling-places  lay 
about  in  the  litter,  signifying  that  men  and  women  with  some 
love  for  the  arts  of  life  had  lived  here  in  decent  comfort.     A 
notice-board  of  a  hotel  which  had  given  hospitality  to  many 
travelers  before  it  became  a  blazing  furnace  lay  sideways  on 
a  mass  of  broken  bricks  with  a  legend  so  frightfully  ironical 
that  I  laughed  among  the  ruins :     "  Chauffage  central  " — 
the  system  of  "  central  heating "  invented  by  Gemians  in 
this  war  had  been  too  hot  for  the  hotel,  and  had  burned  it  to  a 
wreck  of  ashes.      Half  a  dozen  peasants  stood  in  one  of  the 
"  streets  " —  marked  by  a  line  of  rubbish-heaps  which  had 
once  been  their  homes.     Some  of  them  had  waited  until  the 
first   shells   came   over  their  chimney-pots  before  they   fled. 
Several  of  their  friends,  not  so  lucky  in  timing  their  escape, 
had  been  crushed  to  death  by  the  falling  houses.     But  it  was 
not  shell-fire  which  did  the  work.     The  Germans  strewed  the 
cottages  with  their  black  inflammable  tablets,  which  had  been 
made  for  such  cases,  and  set  their  torches  to  the  window-cur- 
tains before  marching  away  to  make  other  bonfires  on  their 
road  of  retreat.      Sennaize  became  a  street  of  fire,  and  from 
each  of  its  houses  flames  shot  out  like  scarlet  snakes,  biting 
through  the  heavy  pall  of  smoke.     Peasants  hiding  in  ditches 
a  mile  away  stared  at  the  furnace  in  which  all  their  household 
goods  were  being  consumed.      Something  of  their  own  life 
seemed  to  be  burning  there,  leaving  the  dust  and  ashes  of  old 
hopes  and  happiness. 

"  That  was  mine,"  said  one  of  the  peasants,  pointing  to  a 
few  square  yards  of  wreckage.  "  I  took  my  woman  home 
across  the  threshold  that  was  there.     She  was  a  fine  girl,  with 


150  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

hair  like  gold,  Monsieur.  Now  her  hair  has  gone  quite  white, 
during  these  recent  weeks.  That's  what  war  does  for  women. 
There  are  many  like  that  hereabouts,  white-haired  before  their 
time." 

I  saw  some  of  those  white-haired  women  in  Blesmes  and 
Huiron  and  other  scrap-heaps  of  German  ruthlessness. 
They  wandered  in  a  disconsolate  way  about  the  ruins,  watch- 
ing rather  hopelessly  the  building  of  wooden  huts  by  a  number 
of  English  "  Quakers  "  who  had  come  here  to  put  up  shelters 
for  these  homeless  people  of  France.  They  were  doing  good 
work  -■ —  one  of  the  most  beautiful  works  of  charity  which 
had  been  called  out  of  this  war,  and  giving  a  new  meaning 
to  their  name  of  the  Society  of  Friends.  But  though  they 
were  handy  in  the  use  of  the  wood  given  them  by  the  French 
Government  for  this  purpose,  not  all  their  industry  nor  all 
their  friendliness  could  bring  back  the  beauty  of  these  old- 
world  villages  of  Champagne,  built  centuries  ago  by  men  of 
art  and  craft,  and  chiseled  by  Time  itself,  so  that  the  stones 
told  tales  of  history  to  the  villagers.  It  would  be  difficult  to 
patch  up  the  gray  old  tower  of  Huiron  Church,  through  which 
shells  had  come  crashing,  or  to  rebuild  its  oak  roof  whose 
beams  were  splintered  like  the  broken  ribs  of  a  rotting 
carcass.  A  white-haired  priest  passed  up  and  down  the 
roadway  before  the  place  in  which  he  had  celebrated  Mass 
and  praised  God  for  the  blessings  of  each  day.  His  hands 
were  clenched  behind  his  bent  back,  and  every  now  and  then 
he  thrust  back  his  broad  felt  hat  and  looked  up  with  immense 
sadness  in  his  eyes  at  the  poor,  battered  thing  which  had  been 
his  church. 

There  was  an  old  chateau  near  Huiron  in  which  a  noble 
family  of  France  had  lived  through  centuries  of  war  and 
revolution.  It  had  many  pointed  gables  and  quaint  turrets 
and  mullioned  windows,  overlooking  a  garden  in  which  there 
were  arbors  for  love-in-idleness  where  ladies  had  dreamed 
awhile  on  many  summer  days  in  the  great  yesterday  of  his- 
tory.    When  I  passed  it,  after  the  Germans  had  gone  that 


INVASION  151 

way,  the  gables  and  the  turrets  had  fallen  down,  and  instead 
of  the  mullioned  windows  there  were  gaping  holes  in  blackened 
walls.  The  gardens  were  a  wild  chaos  of  trampled  shrub- 
beries among  the  cinder-heaps,  the  twisted  iron,  and  the 
wreckage  of  the  old  mansion.  A  flaming  torch  or  two  had 
destroyed  all  that  time  had  spared,  and  the  chateau  of 
Huiron  was  a  graveyard  in  which  beauty  had  been  killed, 
murderously,  by  outrageous  hands. 

In  one  of  these  villages  of  Champagne  —  I  think  it  was  at 
Blesmes  —  I  saw  one  relic  which  had  been  spared  by  chance 
when  the  flames  of  the  incendiaries  had  licked  up  all  other 
things  around,  and  somehow,  God  knows  Avhy,  it  seemed  to  me 
the  most  touching  thing  in  this  place  of  desolation.  It  was  a 
little  stone  fountain,  out  of  which  a  jet  of  water  rose  play- 
fully, falling  with  a  splash  of  water-drops  into  the  sculptured 
basin.  While  the  furnace  was  raging  in  the  village  this  foun- 
tain played  and  reflected  the  glare  of  crimson  light  in  its  bub- 
bling jet.  The  children  of  many  generations  had  dabbled 
their  hands  in  its  basin.  Pretty  girls  had  peeped  into  their 
own  bright  eyes  mirrored  there.  On  summer  days  the  village 
folk  had  sauntered  about  this  sym.bol  of  grace  and  beauty. 
Now  it  was  as  though  I  had  discovered  a  white  Venus  in  the 
dust-heap  of  a  burying-place. 

The  great  horror  of  Invasion  did  not  reach  only  a  few 
villages  in  France  and  blanch  the  hair  of  only  a  few  poor 
women.  During  the  long  months  of  this  stationary  war 
there  was  a  long  black  line  on  all  the  maps,  printed  day  after 
day  with  depressing  repetition  in  all  the  newspapers  of  the 
world.  But  I  wonder  how  many  people  understood  the 
meaning  of  that  black  line  marking  the  length  of  the  German 
front  through  France,  and  saw  in  their  mind's  eye  the  black- 
ness of  all  those  burned  and  shattered  villages,  for  ten  miles 
on  that  border-line  of  the  war  trail?  I  wonder  how  many 
people,  searching  for  news  of  heroic  bayonet  charges  or  for 
thrilling  stories  of  how  Private  John  Smith  kept  an  army 
corps  at  bay,  single-handed,  with  a  smile  on  his  face,  saw 


152  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

even  faintly  and  from  afar  the  flight  of  all  the  fugitives  from 
that  stricken  zone,  the  terror  of  women  and  children  trapped 
in  its  hell-fire,  and  the  hideous  obscenity  of  that  long  track 
across  the  fields  of  France,  where  dead  bodies  lay  rotting  in 
the  rain  and  sun  and  the  homesteads  of  a  simple  people  lay  in 
heaps  from  Artois  to  Lorraine? 

Along  the  valley  of  the  Aisne  and  of  the  Vesle  the  spirit  of 
destruction  established  its  kingdom.  It  was  a  valley  of 
death.  In  the  official  reports  only  a  few  villages  were 
mentioned  by  name,  according  to  their  strategical  importance, 
but  there  were  hundreds  of  hamlets,  unrecorded  in 
despatches,  which  were  struck  by  death  and  became  the 
charnel-houses  of  bones  and  ruins. 

In  the  single  district  of  Vic-sur-Aisne,  the  little  communi- 
ties of  Saconin,  Pernant,  Ambleny,  and  Ressons  —  beautiful 
spots  in  old  days  of  peace,  where  Nature  displayed  all  her 
graciousness  along  the  winding  river  and  where  Time  itself 
seemed  to  slumber  —  French  soldiers  stared  upon  broken 
roofs,  shattered  walls,  and  trampled  gardens,  upon  the 
twisted  iron  of  plows  and  the  broken  woodwork  of  farmers' 
carts,  and  all  the  litter  of  war's  ruthless  damage.  Week 
after  week,  turn  and  turn  about,  German,  French,  and  British 
shells  crashed  over  these  places,  making  dust  and  ashes  of 
them.  Peasants  who  clung  to  their  cots,  hid  in  their  cellars 
and  at  last  fled,  described  all  this  in  a  sentence  or  two  when  I 
questioned  them.  They  had  no  grievance  even  against  fate 
—  their  own  misery  was  swallowed  up  in  that  of  their  neigh- 
bors, each  family  knew  a  worse  case  than  its  own,  and  so,  with 
a  shake  of  the  head,  they  said  there  were  many  who  suff"ered 
these  things. 

Shopkeepers  and  peasants  of  Celles,  of  Conde,  of  Attichy, 
along  the  way  to  Bcrry-au-Bac  and  from  Billy  to  Sermoise, 
all  those  who  have  now  fled  from  the  valley  of  the  Vesle  and 
the  valley  of  the  Aisne  had  just  the  same  story  to  tell  — 
monotonous,  yet  awful  because  of  its  tragedy.  It  was  their 
fate  to  be  along  the  line  of  death.     One  old  fellow  who  came 


INVASION  153 

from  Vailly  had  lived  for  two  months  in  a  continual  can- 
nonade. He  had  seen  his  little  town  taken  and  retaken  ten 
times  in  turn  by  the  French  and  the  Germans. 

When  I  heard  of  this  eye-witness  I  thought :  "  Here  is  a 
man  who  has  a  marvelous  story  to  tell.  If  all  he  has  seen,  all 
the  horrors  and  heroism  of  great  engagements  were  written 
down,  just  as  he  describes  them  in  his  peasant  speech,  it 
would  make  an  historic  document  to  be  read  by  future  gener- 
ations." 

But  what  did  he  answer  to  eager  questions  about  his  experi- 
ence.'' He  was  hard  of  hearing  and,  with  a  hand  making  a 
cup  for  his  right  ear,  stared  at  me  a  little  dazed.  He  said  at 
last,  "  It  was  difficult  to  get  to  sleep." 

That  was  all  he  had  to  say  about  it,  and  many  of  these 
peasants  were  like  him,  repeating  some  trivial  detail  of  their 
experience,  the  loss  of  a  dog  or  the  damage  to  an  old  teapot, 
as  though  that  eclipsed  all  other  suffering.  But  little  by 
little,  if  one  had  the  patience,  one  could  get  wider  glimpses  of 
the  truth.  Another  old  man  from  the  village  of  Soupir  told 
a  more  vivid  tale.  His  dwelling-place  sheltered  some  of  the 
Germans  when  they  traversed  the  district.  The  inhabitants 
of  Soupir,  he  said,  were  divided  into  two  groups.  Able- 
bodied  prisoners  were  sent  off  to  Germany,  and  women  and 
children  who  were  carried  off  in  retreat  were  afterwards 
allowed  to  go  back,  but  not  until  several  poor  little  creatures 
had  been  killed,  and  pretty  girls  subjected  to  gross  indigni- 
ties by  brutal  soldiers.  Upon  entering  Soupir  the  French 
troops  found  in  cellars  where  they  had  concealed  themselves 
thirty  people  who  had  gone  raving  mad  and  who  cried  and 
pleaded  to  remain  so  that  they  could  still  hear  the  shells  and 
gibber  at  death.  "  War  is  so  bracing  to  a  nation,"  says  the 
philosopher.  "  War  purges  peoples  of  their  vanities."  If 
there  is  a  devil  —  and  there  must  be  many  old-time  skeptics 
who  believe  now  not  in  one  but  in  a  hundred  thousand  devils 
—  how  the  old  rogue  must  chuckle  at  such  words ! 

It  was  astounding  to  any  student  of  psychology  wandering 


154.  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

in  the  war  zone  to  see  how  many  of  the  peasants  of  France 
clung  to  their  houses,  in  spite  of  all  their  terror  of  German 
shells  and  German  soldiers.  When  in  the  first  month  of  1915 
the  enemy  suddenly  swarmed  over  the  ridges  of  Cuffies  and 
Crouy,  to  the  north  of  Soissons,  and  with  overwhelming  num- 
bers smashed  the  French  back  across  the  Aisne  at  a  time  when 
the  rising  of  the  river  had  broken  many  pontoon  bridges,  so 
that  the  way  of  escape  was  almost  cut  off,  they  drove  out 
crowds  of  peasant  folk  who  had  remained  along  this  fifteen 
miles  of  front  until  actually  shelled  out  in  that  last  attack 
which  put  the  ruins  of  their  houses  into  the  hands  of  the  Ger- 
mans. As  long  as  three  months  before  Crouy  itself  had  been 
a  target  for  the  enemy's  guns,  so  that  hardly  a  cottage  was 
standing  with  solid  walls. 

Nevertheless,  with  that  homing  instinct  which  is  the 
strongest  emotion  in  the  heart  of  the  French  peasant,  many 
of  the  inhabitants  had  been  living  an  underground  life  in 
their  cellars,  obtaining  food  from  French  soldiers  and  cower- 
ing close  together  as  shells  came  shrieking  overhead,  and  as 
the  shattered  buildings  collapsed  into  greater  ruin. 

So  it  was  in  Rheims  and  Arras  and  other  towns  which 
were  not  spared  in  spite  of  the  glories  of  an  architecture 
which  can  never  be  rebuilt  in  beauty.  Only  a  few  days  before 
writing  these  lines,  I  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  greatest  battle- 
field in  France  and  from  an  observation  post  perched  like  an 
eyrie  in  a  tree  above  the  valley,  looked  across  to  the  cathedral 
of  Rheims,  that  shrine  of  history,  where  the  bones  of  kings 
lie,  and  where  every  stone  speaks  of  saints  and  heroes  and  a 
thousand  years  of  worship.  The  German  shells  were  still 
falling  about  it,  and  its  great  walls  stood  grim  and  battered 
in  a  wreck  of  smoke.  For  nine  months  the  city  of  Rheims 
has  suffered  the  wounds  of  war.  Shrapnel  and  air-bombs, 
incendiary  shells  and  monstrous  marmites  had  fallen  within 
its  boundaries  week  by  week;  sometimes  only  one  or  two  on 
an  idle  day,  sometimes  in  a  raging  storm  of  fire,  but  always 
killing  a  few  more  people,  always  shattering  another  house  or 


INVASION  155 

two,  always  spoiling  another  bit  of  sculptured  beauty.  Nev- 
ertheless, there  were  thousands  of  citizens,  women  as  well  as 
men,  who  would  not  leave  their  city.  They  lived  in  cellars, 
into  which  they  had  dragged  their  beds  and  stores,  and  when 
the  shell-fire  slackened  they  emerged,  came  out  into  the  light 
of  day,  looked  around  at  the  new  damage,  and  went  about 
their  daily  business  until  cleared  underground  again  by 
another  storm  of  death.  There  were  two  old  ladies  with  an 
elderly  daughter  who  used  to  sit  at  table  in  the  salle-a-man- 
ger  of  a  hotel  in  Paris  a  week  or  two  ago.  I  saw  them 
arrive  one  day,  and  watched  the  placid  faces  of  these  stately 
old  dames  in  black  silk  with  little  lace  caps  on  their  white 
hair.  It  was  hardly  possible  to  believe  that  for  three  months 
they  had  lived  in  a  cellar  at  Rheims,  listening  through  the 
day  and  night  to  the  cannonading  of  the  city,  and  to  the  rush- 
ing of  shells  above  their  own  house.  Yet  I  think  that  even 
in  a  cellar  those  old  women  of  France  preserved  their  dignity, 
and  in  spite  of  dirty  hands  (for  water  was  very  scarce)  ate 
their  meager  rations  with  a  stately  grace. 

More  miserable  and  less  armed  with  courage  were  the 
people  of  France  who  lived  in  cities  held  by  the  enemy  and 
secure  from  shell-fire  —  in  Lille,  and  St.  Quentin,  and  other 
towns  of  the  North,  where  the  Germans  paraded  in  their 
pointed  casques.  For  the  most  part  in  these  great  centers  of 
population  the  enemy  behaved  well.  Order  was  maintained 
among  the  soldiers  with  ruthless  severity  by  German  officers 
in  high  command.  There  were  none  of  the  wild  and  obscene 
acts  which  disgraced  the  German  army  in  its  first  advance  to 
and  its  retreat  from  the  Marne.  No  torch  bearers  and  tab- 
let scatterers  were  let  loose  in  the  streets.  On  the  contrary 
any  German  soldier  misbehaving  himself  by  looting,  raping,  or 
drunken  beastliness  found  a  quick  death  against  a  white  wall. 
But  to  the  French  citizens  it  was  a  daily  agony  to  see  those 
crowds  of  hostile  troops  in  their  streets  and  houses,  to  listen 
to  their  German  speech,  to  obey  the  orders  of  generals  who 
had  fought  their  way  through  Northern  France  across  the 


166  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

bodies  of  French  soldiers,  smashing,  burning,  killing  along  the 
bloody  track  of  war.  These  citizens  of  the  captured  soil  of 
France  knew  bitterness  of  Invasion  more  poignantly  than 
those  who  hid  in  cellars  under  shell-fire.  Their  bodies  were 
unwoundcd,  but  their  spirit  bled  in  agony.  By  official  pla- 
cards posted  on  the  walls  they  read  of  German  victories  and 
French  defeats.  In  the  restaurants  and  cafes,  and  in  their 
own  houses  they  had  to  serve  men  who  were  engaged  in 
slaughtering  their  kinsfolk.  It  was  difficult  to  be  patient 
with  those  swaggering  young  officers  who  gave  the  glad  eye  to 
girls  whose  sweethearts  lay  dead  somewhere  between  the 
French  and  German  trenches. 

From  a  lady  who  had  been  seven  months  in  St.  Quentin, 
I  heard  the  story  of  how  invasion  came  suddenly  and  took 
possession  of  the  people.  The  arrival  of  the  German  troops 
was  an  utter  surprise  to  the  population,  who  had  had  no 
previous  warning.  Most  of  the  French  infantry  had  left  the 
town,  and  there  remained  only  a  few  detachments,  and  some 
English  and  Scottish  soldiers  who  had  lost  their  way  in  the 
great  retreat,  or  who  were  lying  wounded  in  the  hospitals. 
The  enemy  came  into  the  town  at  4  p.  m.  on  August  28,  hav- 
ing completely  surrounded  it,  so  that  they  entered  from  every 
direction.  The  civil  population,  panic-stricken,  remained  for 
the  most  part  in  their  houses,  staring  through  their  windows 
at  the  columns  of  dusty,  sun-baked  men  who  came  down  the 
streets.  Some  of  the  British  soldiers,  caught  in  this  trap, 
decided  to  fight  to  the  death,  which  they  knew  was  inevitable. 
Several  English  and  Scottish  soldiers  fired  at  the  Germans  as 
they  advanced  into  the  chief  square  and  were  instantly  shot. 
One  man,  a  tall  young  soldier,  stationed  himself  at  the  corner 
of  the  Place  du  Huit  Octobre,  and  with  extraordinary  cool- 
ness and  rapidity  fired  shot  after  shot,  so  that  several  German 
soldiers  were  killed  or  wounded.  The  enemy  brought  up  a 
machine  gun  and  used  it  against  this  one  man  who  tried  to 
stop  an  army.  He  fell  riddled  with  bullets,  and  was  blown 
to  pieces  as  he  lay. 


INVASION  157 

On  the  whole  the  Germans  behaved  well  at  St.  Quentin. 
Their  rule  was  stern  but  just,  and  although  the  civil  popula- 
tion had  been  put  on  rations  of  black  bread,  they  got  enough 
and  it  was  not,  after  all,  so  bad.  As  one  of  the  most  im- 
portant bases  of  the  German  army  in  France,  the  town  was 
continually  filled  with  troops  of  every  regiment,  who  stayed 
a  little  while  and  then  passed  on.  Meanwhile  the  permanent 
troops  in  occupation  of  the  town  settled  down  and  made 
themselves  thoroughly  at  home.  They  established  many  of 
their  own  shops  —  bakeries,  tailoring  establishments,  and 
groceries ;  and  in  consequence  of  the  lack  of  discipline  and 
decency  which  prevailed  in  some  of  the  cafes  and  restaurants, 
these  places  were  conducted  by  German  officers,  who  acted  as 
censors  of  morals  and  professors  of  propriety. 

Astounding  as  it  seems,  there  were  French  women  in  St. 
Quentin  who  sold  themselves  for  German  money  and  gave 
their  kisses  for  a  price  to  men  who  had  ravaged  France  and 
killed  the  sons  of  France.  Such  outrageous  scenes  took 
place,  that  the  German  orders  to  close  some  of  the  cafes  were 
hailed  as  a  boon  by  the  decent  citizens,  who  saw  the  women 
expelled  by  order  of  the  German  commandant  with  enormous 
thankfulness. 

It  is  strange  that  the  Huns,  as  they  are  called,  should 
have  been  so  strict  in  moral  discipline.  Many  of  them  were 
not  so  austere  in  the  villages  when  they  let  their  passions 
loose  and  behaved  like  drunken  demons  or  satyrs  with  flaming 
torches.  There  is  a  riddle  in  the  psychology  of  all  these  con- 
trasts between  the  iron  discipline  and  perfect  organization  by 
which  all  outrage  was  repressed  in  the  large  towns  occupied 
for  any  length  of  time  by  German  troops,  and  the  lawlessness 
and  rapine  of  the  same  race  in  villages,  through  which  they 
passed  hurriedly,  giving  themselves  just  time  enough  to  wreak 
a  cruel  ferocity  upon  unoffending  people.  Riddle  as  it  is, 
it  holds  perhaps  the  key  to  the  mystery  of  the  German  char- 
acter and  to  their  ideal  of  war.  Whenever  there  was  time 
to  establish  discipline,  the  men  were  well  behaved,  and  did 


158  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

not  dare  to  disobey  the  orders  of  their  chiefs.  It  was  only 
when  special  orders  for  "  frightfulness  "  had  been  issued,  or 
when  officers  in  subordinate  command  let  their  men  get  out  of 
hand,  or  led  the  way  to  deviltry  by  their  own  viciousness  of 
action,  that  the  rank  and  file  of  the  enemy's  army  committed 
its  brutalities.  Even  now,  after  all  that  I  have  seen  in  the 
ruined  villages  in  France,  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  believe 
that  the  German  race  is  distinguished  from  all  other  peoples 
in  Europe  by  the  mark  of  the  beast,  or  that  they  are  the 
exclusive  possession  of  the  devil.  The  prisoners  I  have 
spoken  to,  the  blue-eyed  Saxons  and  plump  Bavarians  with 
whom  I  traveled  for  a  while  after  the  battle  of  Neuve  Chapelle, 
seemed  to  me  uncommonly  like  the  yokels  of  our  own  Somer- 
setshire and  Devonshire,  Their  officers  were  polite  and  well- 
bred  men  in  whom  I  saw  no  sign  of  fiendish  lusts  and  cruelties. 
In  normal  moods  they  are  a  good-natured  people,  with  a  little 
touch  of  Teuton  grossness  perhaps,  which  makes  them  swill 
over  much  beer,  and  with  an  arrogance  towards  their  women- 
folk which  is  not  tolerable  to  Englishmen,  unless  they  have 
revolted  from  the  older  courtesies  of  English  life  because 
the  suffragettes  have  challenged  their  authority. 

It  was  in  abnormal  moods  that  they  committed  their 
atrocities,  for  in  the  hot  sun  of  the  first  September  of  the  war 
their  blood  was  overheated,  and  in  the  first  intoxication  of 
their  march  through  France,  drunk  with  the  thrill  of  butcher's 
work  as  well  as  with  French  wine,  brought  back  suddenly  to 
the  primitive  lusts  of  nature  by  the  spirit  of  war,  which  strips 
men  naked  of  all  refinements  and  decent  veils,  they  became 
for  a  time  savages,  with  no  other  restraint  than  that  of  Red 
Indians  on  the  warpath.  They  belonged  to  an  army  of 
Invasion,  marching  through  hostile  territory,  and  the  soul  of 
war  robbed  the  individual  of  his  own  separate  soul  and  put  a 
spell  of  madness  on  him,  so  that  his  eyes  were  bloodshot  and 
his  senses  inflamed  with  lust.  In  the  Peninsular  War  young 
Englishmen  from  decent  villages  in  quiet  countrysides,  with 
pious  mothers  praying  for  them  at  home  in  gray  old  churches, 


INVASION  159 

and  with  pretty  sisters  engaged  in  hero-worship,  were  be- 
witched by  the  same  spell  of  wizardry  and  did  foul  and 
frightful  things  which  afterwards  made  them  dream  o'  nights 
and  wake  in  a  cold  sweat  of  shame  and  horror.  There  are 
many  young  Germans  who  will  wake  out  of  such  dreams 
when  they  get  back  to  Diisseldorf  and  Bingen-am-Rhein, 
searching  back  in  their  hearts  to  find  a  denial  of  the  deeds 
which  have  become  incredible  after  their  awakening  from  the 
nightmare.  For  a  little  while  they  had  been  caught  up  in  the 
soul  of  war  and  their  heroism  had  been  spoiled  by  obscenity, 
and  their  ideals  debased  by  bestial  acts.  They  will  have  only 
one  excuse  to  their  recaptured  souls :  "  It  was  War."  It  is 
the  excuse  which  man  has  made  through  all  the  ages  of  his 
history  for  the  bloody  thing  which,  in  all  those  ages,  has 
made  him  a  liar  to  his  faith  and  a  traitor  to  the  gentle  gods. 


CHAPTER  VII 
THE  LAST  STAND  OF  THE  BELGIANS 

DURING  the  first  two  and  a  half  months  of  the  war  I 
was  a  wanderer  in  France,  covering  many  hundreds 
of  miles  in  zigzag  journeys  between  Nancy  and  the 
west  coast,  always  on  the  move,  backwards  and  forwards, 
between  the  lines  of  the  French  and  British  armies,  and  watch- 
ing with  a  tireless  though  somewhat  haggard  interest  the 
drama  of  a  great  people  engaged  in  a  life-and-death  struggle 
against  the  most  formidable  army  in  the  world.  I  had  been 
in  the  midst  of  populations  in  flight,  armies  in  retreat,  and 
tremendous  movements  of  troops  hurled  forward  to  new 
points  of  strategical  importance.  Now  and  again  I  had 
come  in  touch  with  the  British  army  and  had  seen  something 
of  the  men  who  had  fought  their  way  down  from  Mons  to 
Meaux,  but  for  the  most  part  my  experience  had  been  with 
the  French,  and  it  was  the  spirit  of  France  which  I  had  done 
my  best  to  interpret  to  the  English  people. 

Now  I  was  to  see  war,  more  closely  and  intimately  than 
before,  in  another  nation ;  and  I  stood  with  homage  in  my 
heart  before  the  spirit  of  Belgium  and  that  heroic  people  who, 
when  I  came  upon  them,  had  lost  all  but  the  last  patch  of 
territory,  but  still  fought,  almost  alone,  a  tenacious,  bloody 
and  unending  battle  against  the  Power  which  had  laid  low 
their  cities,  mangled  their  ancient  beauties,  and  changed  their 
little  land  of  peaceful  industry  into  a  muck  heap  of  slaughter 
and  destruction. 

Even  in  France  I  had  this  vision  of  the  ruin  of  a  nation, 

and  saw  its  victims  scattered.     Since  that  day  when  I  came 

upon  the  first  trainload  of  Belgian  soldiers  near  Calais,  weary 

160 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      161 

as  lame  dogs  after  their  retreat,  I  had  seen  an  interminable 
procession  of  fugitives  from  that  stricken  country  and  heard 
from  them  the  tale  of  Alost,  Louvain,  Termondc  and  other 
towns  where  only  horror  dwelt  above  incinerated  stones  and 
scraps  of  human  flesh.  The  fall  of  Antwerp  resounded  into 
France,  and  its  surrender  after  words  of  false  hope  that  it 
would  never  fall  shook  the  soul  of  the  French  people  with  a 
great  dismay.  It  was  idle  to  disguise  the  importance  of  this 
German  victory  at  the  time  when  France,  with  every  nerve 
strained  and  with  England  by  her  side,  could  hardly  stem 
back  the  tide  of  those  overflowing  armies  which  had  been 
thrust  across  the  Marne  but  now  pressed  westward  towards 
Calais  with  a  smashing  strength.  The  capture  of  Antwerp 
would  liberate  large  numbers  of  the  enemy's  best  troops. 
Already,  within  a  day  of  this  disaster  to  the  allied  armies, 
squadrons  of  German  cavalry  swept  across  the  frontiers  into 
France,  forcing  their  way  rapidly  through  Lille  and  Armen- 
tieres  towards  Bethune  and  La  Bassee,  cutting  lines  which 
had  already  been  cut  and  then  repaired,  and  striking  terror 
into  French  villages  which  had  so  far  escaped  from  these 
hussars  of  death.  As  a  journalist,  thwarted  at  every  turn 
by  the  increasing  severity  of  military  orders  for  corre- 
spondent catching,  the  truth  was  not  to  be  told  at  any  cost. 
I  had  suspected  the  doom  of  Antwerp  some  days  before  its 
fate  was  sealed,  and  I  struck  northward  to  get  as  near  as 
possible  to  the  Belgian  frontier.  The  nearest  I  could  get 
was  Dunkirk,  and  I  came  in  time  to  see  amazing  scenes  in  that 
port  of  France.  They  were  scenes  which,  even  now  as  I  write 
months  afterwards,  stir  me  with  pity  and  bring  back  to  my 
imagination  an  immense  tragedy  of  history. 

The  town  of  Dunkirk,  from  which  I  went  out  to  many  ad- 
ventures in  the  heart  of  war,  so  that  for  me  it  will  always 
hold  a  great  memor^^,  was  on  that  day  in  October  a  place  of 
wild  chaos,  filled  with  the  murmur  of  enormous  crowds,  and 
with  the  steady  tramp  of  innumerable  feet  which  beat  out  a 
tragic  march.     Those  weary  footsteps  thumping  the  pave- 


162  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

ments  and  the  cobblestones,  made  a  noise  like  the  surging 
of  waves  on  a  pebble  beach  —  a  queer,  muffled,  shuffling 
sound,  with  a  rhythm  in  it  which  stupefied  one's  senses  if  one 
listened  to  it  long.  I  think  something  of  this  agony  of  a 
people  in  flight  passed  into  my  own  body  and  brain  that  day. 
Some  sickness  of  the  soul  took  possession  of  me,  so  that  I  felt 
faint  and  overcome  by  black  dejection.  There  was  a  physical 
evil  among  those  vast  crowds  of  Belgians  who  had  come  on 
foot,  or  in  any  kind  of  vehicle,  down  the  big,  straight  roads 
which  led  to  France,  and  now  struggled  down  towards  the 
docks,  where  thousands  were  encamped.  From  their  weari- 
ness and  inevitable  dirtiness,  from  the  sweat  of  their  bodies, 
and  the  tears  that  had  dried  upon  their  cheeks,  from  the  dust 
and  squalor  of  bedraggled  clothes,  there  came  to  one's 
nostrils  a  sickening  odor.  It  was  the  stench  of  a  nation's 
agony.  Poor  people  of  despair !  There  was  something 
obscene  and  hideous  in  your  miserable  condition.  Standing 
among  your  women  and  children,  and  your  old  grandfathers 
and  grandmothers,  I  was  ashamed  of  looking  with  watchful 
and  observant  eyes.  There  were  delicate  ladies  with  their 
hats  awry  and  their  hair  disheveled,  and  their  beautiful 
clothes  bespattered  and  torn,  so  that  they  were  like  the  drabs 
of  the  slums  and  stews.  There  were  young  girls  who  had 
been  sheltered  in  convent  schools,  now  submerged  in  the  great 
crowd  of  fugitives,  so  utterly  without  the  comforts  of  life  that 
the  common  decencies  of  civilization  could  not  be  regarded, 
but  gave  way  to  the  unconcealed  necessities  of  human  nature. 
Peasant  women,  squatting  on  the  dock-sides,  fed  their  babes 
as  they  wept  over  them  and  wailed  like  stricken  creatures. 
Children  with  scared  eyes,  as  though  they  had  been  left  alone 
in  the  horror  of  darkness,  searched  piteously  for  parents  who 
had  been  separated  from  them  in  the  struggle  for  a  train  or 
in  the  surgings  of  the  crowds.  Young  fathers  of  families 
shouted  hoarsely  for  women  who  could  not  be  found.  Old 
women,  with  shaking  heads  and  trembling  hands,  raised 
shrill  voices  in  the  vain  hope  that  they  might  hear  an  answer- 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      163 

ing  call  from  sons  or  daughters.  Like  people  who  had 
escaped  from  an  earthquake  to  some  seashore  where  by  chance 
a  boat  might  come  for  them  all,  these  Belgian  families 
struggled  to  the  port  of  Dunkirk  and  waited  desperately  for 
rescue.  They  were  in  a  worse  plight  than  shipwrecked 
people,  for  no  ship  of  good  hope  could  take  them  home  again. 
Behind  them  the  country  lay  in  dust  and  flames,  with  hostile 
armies  encamped  among  the  ruins  of  their  towns. 

For  a  little  while  I  left  these  crowds  and  escaped  to  the 
quiet  sanctuary  of  a  restaurant  in  the  center  of  the  town.  I 
remember  that  some  English  officers  came  in  and  stared  at 
me  from  their  table  with  hard  eyes,  suspicious  of  me  as  a  spy, 
or,  worse  still,  as  a  journalist.  (In  those  days,  having  to 
dodge  arrest  at  every  turn,  I  had  a  most  unpatriotic  hatred 
of  those  British  officers  whose  stern  eyes  gimleted  my  soul. 
They  seemed  to  me  so  like  the  Prussian  at  his  worst.  After- 
wards, getting  behind  this  mask  of  harness,  by  the  magic  of 
official  papers,  I  abandoned  my  dislike  and  saw  only  the 
virtue  of  our  men.)  I  remember  also  that  I  ate  at  table 
opposite  a  pretty  girl,  with  a  wanton's  heart,  who  prattled  to 
me,  because  I  was  an  Englishman,  as  though  no  war  had  come 
to  make  a  mockery  of  love-in-idleness.  I  stood  up  from  the 
table,  upsetting  a  glass  so  that  it  broke  at  the  stem.  Outside 
the  restaurant  was  the  tramp  of  another  multitude.  But  the 
rhythm  of  those  feet  was  different  from  the  noise  I  had  heard 
all  day.  It  was  sharper  and  more  marked.  I  guessed  at  once 
that  many  soldiers  were  passing  by,  and  that  upon  striding  to 
the  door  I  should  see  another  tragedy.  From  the  doorway  I 
watched  an  army  in  retreat.  It  was  the  army  of  Antwerp 
marching  into  Dunkirk.  I  took  off  my  hat  and  watched  with 
bared  head. 

They  were  but  broken  regiments,  marching  disorderly  for 
the  most  part,  yet  here  and  there  were  little  bodies  of  men 
keeping  step,  with  shouldered  rifles,  in  fine,  grim  pride.  The 
municipal  guards  came  by,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  as  on 
parade,  but  they  were  followed  by  long  convoys  of  mounted 


164  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

men  on  stumbling  horses,  who  came  with  heaps  of  disorderly 
salvage  piled  on  to  dusty  wagons.  Saddles  and  bridles  and 
bits,  the  uniforms  of  many  regiments  flung  out  hurriedly 
from  barrack  cupboards ;  rifles,  swords,  and  boots  were 
heaped  on  to  beds  of  straw,  and  upon  the  top  of  them  lay 
men  exhausted  to  the  point  of  death,  so  that  their  heads 
flopped  and  lolled  as  the  carts  came  jolting  through  the 
streets.  Armored  cars  with  mitrailleuses,  motor-cars  slashed 
and  plugged  by  German  bullets,  forage  carts  and  ambulances, 
struggled  by  in  a  tide  of  traffic  between  bodies  of  foot- 
soldiers  slouching  along  without  any  pride,  but  dazed  with 
weariness.  Their  uniforms  were  powdered  with  the  dust  of 
the  roads,  their  faces  were  blanched  and  haggard  for  lack  of 
food  and  sleep.  Some  of  them  had  a  delirious  look  and  they 
stared  about  them  with  rolling  eyes  in  which  there  was  a 
gleam  of  madness.  Many  of  these  men  were  wounded  and 
spattered  with  their  blood.  Their  bandages  were  stained 
with  scarlet  splotches,  and  some  of  them  were  so  weak  that 
they  left  their  ranks  and  sat  in  doorways,  or  on  the  curb- 
stones, with  their  heads  drooping  sideways.  Many  another 
man,  footsore  and  lame,  trudged  along  on  one  boot  and  a 
bandaged  sock,  with  the  other  boot  slung  to  his  rifle  barrel. 

Riding  alone  between  two  patrols  of  mounted  men  was 
a  small  boy  on  a  high  horse.  He  was  a  fair-haired  lad  of 
twelve  or  so,  in  a  Belgian  uniform,  with  a  tasseled  cap  over 
one  ear,  and  as  he  passed  the  Dunquerquoises  clapped  hands 
and  called  out :  "  Bravo !  Bravo !  "  He  took  the  ovation 
with  a  grin  and  held  his  head  high. 

The  cafes  in  this  part  of  France  were  crowded  with 
Belgian  officers  of  all  grades.  I  had  never  seen  so  many 
generals  together  or  such  a  medley  of  uniforms.  They 
saluted  each  other  solemnly,  and  there  were  emotional 
greetings  between  friends  and  brothers  who  had  not  seen 
each  other  after  weeks  of  fighting  in  different  parts  of  the 
lines,  in  this  city  across  the  border.  Most  of  the  officers 
were  fine,  sturdy,  young  fellows  of  stouter  physique  than 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      165 

the  French  among  whom  I  had  been  roving.  But  others 
had  the  student  look  and  stared  mournfully  from  gold- 
rimmed  spectacles.  There  were  many  middle-aged  men 
among  them  who  wore  military  uniforms,  but  without  a 
soldier's  ease  or  swagger.  When  Germany  tore  up  that 
"  scrap  of  paper  "  which  guaranteed  the  integrity  of  Belgium, 
every  patriotic  man  there  volunteered  for  the  defense  of  his 
country  and  shouldered  a  rifle,  though  he  had  never  fired  a 
blank  cartridge,  and  put  on  some  kind  of  uniform,  though 
he  had  never  drilled  in  a  barrack  square.  Lawyers  and 
merchants,  schoolmasters  and  poets,  actors  and  singers, 
farmers  and  peasants,  rushed  to  take  up  arms,  and  when 
the  vanguards  of  the  German  army  struck  across  the  frontier 
they  found  themselves  confronted  not  only  by  the  small 
regular  army  of  Belgium,  but  by  the  whole  nation.  Even 
the  women  helped  to  dig  the  trenches  at  Liege,  and  poured 
boiling  water  over  Uhlans  who  came  riding  into  Belgian 
villages.  It  was  the  rising  of  a  whole  people  which  led  to 
so  much  ruthlessness  and  savage  cruelty.  The  German 
generals  were  afraid  of  a  nation  of  franc-tireurs,  where  every 
man  or  boy  who  could  hold  a  gun  shot  at  the  sight  of  a 
pointed  helmet.  Those  high  officers  to  whom  war  is  a 
science  without  any  human  emotion  or  pity  in  its  rules, 
were  determined  to  stamp  out  this  irregular  fighting  by 
blood  and  fire,  and  "  frightfulness  "  became  the  order  of 
the  day.  I  have  heard  English  officers  uphold  these  methods 
and  use  the  same  excuse  for  all  those  massacres  which  has 
been  put  forward  by  the  enemy  themselves.  "  War  is 
war.  .  .  .  One  cannot  make  war  with  rosewater.  .  .  .  The 
f  ranc-tireur  has  to  be  shot  at  sight.  A  civil  population  using 
arms  against  an  invading  army  must  be  taught  a  bloody 
lesson.  If  ever  we  get  into  Germany  we  may  have  to  face 
the  same  trouble,  so  it  is  no  use  shouting  words  of  horror." 
War  is  war,  and  hell  is  hell.  Let  us  for  the  moment 
leave  it  at  that,  as  I  left  it  in  the  streets  of  Dunkirk,  where 
the  volunteer  army  of  Belgium  and  their  garrison  troops 


166  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

had  come  in  retreat  after  heroic  resistance  against  over- 
whelming odds,  in  which  their  courage  without  science  was 
no  match  for  the  greatest  death  machine  in  Europe,  con- 
trolled by  experts  highly  trained  in  the  business  of  arms. 

That  night  I  went  for  a  journey  in  a  train  of  tragedy. 
I  was  glad  to  get  into  the  train.  Here,  traveling  through  the 
clean  air  of  a  quiet  night,  I  might  forget  for  a  little  while  the 
senseless  cruelties  of  this  war,  and  turn  my  eyes  away  from 
the  suffering  of  individuals  smashed  by  its  monstrous  in- 
justice. 

But  the  long  train  was  packed  tight  with  refugees. 
There  was  only  room  for  me  in  the  corridor  if  I  kept  my 
elbows  close,  tightly  wedged  against  the  door.  Others  tried 
to  clamber  in,  implored  piteously  for  a  little  space,  when 
there  was  no  space.  The  train  jerked  forward  on  uneasy 
brakes,  leaving  a  crowd  behind. 

Turning  my  head  and  half  my  body  round,  I  could  see 
into  two  of  the  lighted  carriages  behind  me,  as  I  stood  in  the 
corridor.  They  were  overfilled  with  various  types  of  these 
Belgian  people  whom  I  had  been  watching  all  day  —  the 
fugitives  of  a  ravaged  country.  For  a  little  while  in  this 
French  train  they  were  out  of  the  hurly-burly  of  their  flight. 
For  the  first  time  since  the  shells  burst  over  Antwerp  they 
had  a  little  quietude  and  rest. 

I  glanced  at  their  faces,  as  they  sat  back  with  their  eyes 
closed.  There  was  a  young  Belgian  priest  there,  with  a 
fair,  clean-shaven  face.  He  wore  top  boots  splashed  with 
mud,  and  only  a  silver  cross  at  his  breast  showed  his  office. 
He  had  fallen  asleep  with  a  smile  about  his  lips.  But 
presently  he  awakened  with  a  start,  and  suddenly  there 
came  into  his  eyes  a  look  of  indescribable  horror.  .  .  .  He 
had  remembered. 

There  was  an  old  lady  next  to  him.  The  light  from  the 
carriage  lamp  glinted  upon  her  silver  hair,  and  gave  a 
Rembrandt  touch  to  a  fair  old  Flemish  face.  She  was 
looking  at  the  priest,  and  her  lips  moved  as  though  in  pity. 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      167 

Once  or  twice  slie  glanced  at  her  dirty  hands,  at  her  draggled 
dress,  and  then  sighed,  before  bending  her  head,  and  dozing 
into  forgetfulness. 

A  young  Flemish  mother  cuddled  close  to  a  small  boy 
with  flaxen  hair,  whose  blue  eyes  stared  solemnly  in  front 
of  him  with  an  old  man's  gravity  of  vision.  She  touched 
the  child's  hair  with  her  lips,  pressed  him  closer,  seemed 
eager  to  feel  his  living  form,  as  though  nothing  mattered 
now  that  she  had  him  safe. 

On  the  opposite  seat  were  two  Belgian  officers  —  an 
elderly  man  with  a  white  mustache  and  grizzled  eyebrows 
under  his  high  kepi  and  a  young  man  in  a  tasseled  forage 
cap,  like  a  boy-student.  They  both  sat  in  a  limp,  dejected 
way.  There  was  defeat  and  despair  in  their  attitude.  It 
was  only  when  the  younger  man  shifted  his  right  leg  with  a 
sudden  grimace  of  pain  that  I  saw  he  was  wounded. 

Here  in  these  two  carriages  through  which  I  could  glimpse 
were  a  few  souls  holding  in  their  memory  all  the  sorrow  and 
suffering  of  poor,  stricken  Belgium.  Upon  this  long  train 
were  a  thousand  other  men  and  women  in  the  same  plight 
and  with  the  same  grief. 

Next  to  me  in  the  corridor  was  a  young  man  with  a  pale 
beard  and  mustache  and  fine  delicate  features.  He  had  an 
air  of  distinction,  and  his  clothes  suggested  a  man  of  some 
wealth  and  standing.  I  spoke  to  him,  a  few  commonplace 
sentences,  and  found,  as  I  had  guessed,  that  he  was  a  Belgian 
refugee. 

"  Where  are  you  going?  "  I  asked. 

He  smiled  at  me  and  shrugged  his  shoulders  slightly. 

"  Anywhere.  What  does  it  matter.?  I  have  lost  every- 
thing.    One  place  is  as  good  as  another  for  a  ruined  man." 

He  did  not  speak  emotionally.  There  was  no  thrill  of 
despair  in  his  voice.  It  was  as  though  he  were  telling  me 
that  he  had  lost  his  watch. 

"  That  is  my  mother  over  there,"  he  said  presently,  glanc- 
ing towards  the  old  lady  with  the  silver  hair.     "  Our  house 


168  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

has  been  burned  by  the  Germans  and  all  our  property  was 
destroyed.  We  have  nothing  left.  May  I  have  a  light  for 
this  cigarette  ?  " 

One  young  soldier  explained  the  reasons  for  the  Belgian 
debacle.     They  seemed  convincing. 

"  I  fought  all  the  way  from  Liege  to  Antwerp.  But  it 
was  always  the  same.  When  we  killed  one  German,  five 
appeared  in  his  place.  When  we  killed  a  hundred,  a  thousand 
followed.  It  was  all  no  use.  We  had  to  retreat  and  retreat. 
That  is  demoralizing." 

"  England  is  very  kind  to  the  refugees,"  said  another  man. 
"  We  shall  never  forget  these  things." 

The  train  stopped  at  wayside  stations.  Sometimes  we 
got  down  to  stamp  our  feet.  Always  there  were  crowds  of 
Belgian  refugees  on  the  platforms  —  shadow  figures  in  the 
darkness  or  silhouetted  in  the  light  of  the  station  lamps. 
They  were  encamped  there  with  their  bundles  and  their 
babies. 

On  the  railway  lines  were  many  trains,  shunted  into  sidings. 
They  belonged  to  the  Belgian  State  Railways,  and  had  been 
brought  over  the  frontier  away  from  German  hands  —  hun- 
dreds of  them.  In  their  carriages  little  families  of  refugees 
had  made  their  homes.  They  are  still  living  in  them,  hang- 
ing their  washings  from  the  windows,  cooking  their  meals  in 
these  narrow  rooms.  They  have  settled  down  as  though  the 
rest  of  their  lives  is  to  be  spent  in  a  siding.  We  heard  their 
voices,  speaking  Flemish,  as  our  train  passed  on.  One 
woman  was  singing  her  child  to  sleep  with  a  sweet  old  lullaby. 
In  my  train  there  was  singing  also.  A  party  of  four  young 
Frenchmen  came  in,  forcing  their  way  hilariously  into  a 
corridor  which  seemed  packed  to  the  last  inch  of  space.  I 
learned  the  words  of  the  refrain  which  they  sang  at  every 
station : 

A  has  Guillaume! 
Cest  un  filou 
II  faut  le  pendre 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      169 

II  faut  le  p  end  re 
La  corde  a  son  cou! 

The  young  Fleming  with  a  pale  beard  and  mustache 
smiled  as  he  glanced  at  the  Frenchmen. 

"  They  have  had  better  luck,"  he  said.  "  We  bore  the 
first  brunt." 

I  left  the  train  and  the  friends  I  had  made.  We  parted 
with  an  "  Au  revoir  "  and  a  "  Good  luck !  "  When  I  went 
down  to  the  station  the  next  morning  I  learned  that  a  train 
of  refugees  had  been  in  collision  at  La  Marquise,  near 
Boulogne.  Forty  people  had  been  killed  and  sixty  injured. 
After  their  escape  from  the  horrors  of  Antwerp  the  people 
on  this  train  of  tragedy  had  been  struck  again  by  a  blow 
from  the  clenched  fist  of  Fate. 

I  went  back  to  Dunkirk  again  and  stayed  there  for  some 
days  in  the  hope  of  getting  a  pass  which  would  allow  me  to 
cross  the  Belgian  frontier  and  enter  the  zone  of  battle.  Even 
to  get  out  of  the  railway  station  into  this  fortified  town 
required  diplomacy  bordering  upon  dishonesty,  for  since  the 
retreat  of  the  Belgian  army  of  volunteers,  Dunkirk  had  an 
expectation  of  a  siege  and  bombardment  and  no  civilian 
strangers  were  allowed  to  enter.  Fortunately  I  was  enabled 
to  mention  a  great  name,  with  the  implied  and  utterly  un- 
truthful suggestion  that  its  influence  extended  to  my  humble 
person,  so  that  a  French  gentleman  with  a  yard-long  bayonet 
withdrew  himself  from  the  station  doorway  and  allowed  me 
to  pass  with  my  two  friends. 

It  struck  me  then,  as  it  has  a  thousand  times  since  the 
war  began,  how  all  precautions  must  fail  to  keep  out  a  spy 
who  has  a  little  tact  and  some  audacity.  My  two  friends 
and  I  were  provided  with  wortliless  passes  which  failed  to 
comply  with  official  regulations.  We  had  no  authorized 
business  in  Dunkirk,  and  if  our  real  profession  had  been 
known  we  should  have  been  arrested  by  the  nearest  French 
or  British  officer,  sent  down  to  British  headquarters  under 


170  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

armed  guard  and,  after  very  unpleasant  experiences  as 
criminals  of  a  dangerous  and  objectionable  type,  expelled 
from  France  with  nasty  words  on  our  passports.  Yet  in 
spite  of  spy-mania  and  a  hundred  methods  of  spy-catching, 
we  who  were  classed  with  spies  passed  all  barriers  and  saw 
all  the  secrets  of  the  town's  defense.  If  instead  of  being  a 
mild  and  inoffensive  Englishman  I  had  been  a  fierce  and 
patriotic  German,  I  might  have  brought  away  a  mass  of 
military  inforaiation  of  the  utmost  value  to  General  von 
Kluck;  or,  if  out  for  blood,  I  might  have  killed  some  very 
distinguished  officers  before  dying  as  a  faithful  son  of  the 
Fatherland.  No  sentries  at  the  door  of  the  Hotel  des 
Arcades,  in  the  Place  Jean  Bart,  challenged  three  strangers 
of  shabby  and  hungry  look  when  they  passed  through  in 
search  of  food.  Waiters  scurrying  about  with  dishes  and 
plates  did  not  look  askance  at  them  when  they  strolled  into  a 
dining-room  crowded  with  French  and  British  staff  officers. 
At  the  far  end  of  the  room  was  a  great  general  —  drinking 
croute-au-pot  with  the  simple  appetite  of  a  French  poilu  — 
who  would  have  been  a  splendid  mark  for  any  one  careless  of 
his  own  life  and  upholding  the  law  of  frightfulness  as  a  divine 
sanction  for  assassination.  It  was  "  Soixante-dix  Pau,"  and 
I  was  glad  to  see  that  brave  old  man  who  had  fought  through 
the  terrible  year  of  1870,  and  had  been  en  retraite  in  Paris 
when,  after  forty-four  years,  France  was  again  menaced  by 
German  armies.  Left  "  on  the  shelf  "  for  a  little  while,  and 
eating  his  heart  out  in  this  inactivity  while  his  country  was 
bleeding  from  the  first  wounds  of  war,  he  had  been  called  back 
to  repair  the  fatal  blunders  in  Alsace.  He  had  shown  a  cool 
judgment  and  a  masterly  touch.  From  Alsace,  after  a  re- 
organization of  the  French  plan  of  attack,  he  came  to  the 
left  center  and  took  part  in  the  councils  of  war,  where  General 
Joffre  was  glad  of  this  shrewd  old  comrade  and  gallant  heart. 
He  was  given  an  advisory  position,  unhampered  by  the 
details  of  a  divisional  command,  and  now  it  seemed  to  me  that 
his  presence  in  Dunkirk  hinted  at  grave  possibilities  in  this 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      171 

fortified  town.  He  had  not  come  merely  to  enjoy  a  good 
luncheon  at  the  Hotel  des  Arcades. 

The  civilian  inhabitants  of  Dunkirk  were  beginning  to  feel 
alarmed.  They  knew  that  only  the  last  remnant  of  the  active 
Belgian  army  stood  between  their  great  port  and  the  enemy's 
lines.  Now  that  Antwerp  had  fallen  they  were  beginning 
to  lose  faith  in  their  girdle  of  forts  and  in  their  garrison 
artillery.  The  German  guns  had  assumed  a  mythical  and 
monstrous  significance  in  the  popular  imagination.  It  seemed 
that  they  could  smash  the  strongest  defenses  with  their 
far-reaching  thunderbolts.  There  was  no  outward  panic  in 
the  town  and  the  citizens  hid  their  fears  under  a  mask  of 
contempt  for  the  "  sacres  Boches."  But  on  some  faces  —  of 
people  who  had  no  fear  of  death  except  for  those  they  loved 
—  it  was  a  thin  mask,  which  crumbled  and  let  through  terror 
when  across  the  dykes  and  ramparts  the  rumors  came  that 
the  German  army  was  smashing  forward,  and  closer. 

The  old  landlady  of  the  small  hotel  in  which  I  stayed  had 
laughed  very  heartily  with  her  hands  upon  her  bulging  stays 
when  a  young  Belgian  officer  flirted  in  a  comical  way  with  her 
two  pretty  daughters  —  a  blonde  and  a  brunette,  whose  real 
beauty  and  freshness  and  simplicity  redeemed  the  squalor 
of  their  kitchen. 

But  presently  she  grabbed  me  by  the  arm,  closing  the 
door  with  the  other  hand. 

"  Monsieur,  I  am  an  old  fool  of  a  woman,  because  I  have 
those  two  beauties  there.  It  is  not  of  myself  that  I  am 
afraid.  If  I  could  strangle  a  German  and  wring  his  neck, 
I  would  let  the  rest  cut  me  into  bits.  But  those  girls  of 
mine  —  those  two  roses.  I  can't  let  them  take  risks !  You 
understand  —  those  Germans  are  a  dirty  race.  Tell  me,  is 
it  time  for  us  to  go  ?  " 

I  could  not  tell  her  if  it  were  time  to  go.  With  two  such 
girls  I  think  I  should  have  fled,  panic-stricken.  And  yet  I 
did  not  believe  the  Germans  would  find  Dunkirk  an  easy 
place  to  take.     I  had  been  round  its  fortifications,  and  had 


172  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

seen  the  details  of  elaborate  works  which  even  against 
German  guns  might  prove  impregnable.  Outside  the  outer 
forts  the  ground  was  bare  and  flat,  so  that  not  a  rabbit  could 
scuttle  across  without  being  seen  and  shot.  Sandbag  en- 
trenchments and  earthworks,  not  made  recently,  because 
grass  had  clothed  them,  afforded  splendid  cover  for  the 
French  batteries.  Bomb-proof  shelters  were  dotted  about 
the  fields,  and  for  miles  away,  as  far  as  the  Belgian  frontier, 
were  lines  of  trenches  and  barbed-wire  entanglements.  To 
the  eye  of  a  man  not  skilled  in  military  science  all  these  signs 
of  a  strong  defense  were  comforting.  And  yet  I  think  they 
were  known  to  be  valueless  if  the  enemy  broke  through  along 
the  road  to  Dunkirk. 

A  cheerful  priest  whom  I  met  across  an  iron  bridge  told 
me  the  secret  of  Dunkirk's  real  defenses. 

"  We  have  just  to  turn  on  a  tap  or  two,"  he  said,  laughing 
at  the  simplicity  of  the  operation,  "  and  all  those  fields  for 
miles  will  be  flooded  within  an  hour  or  two.  Look,  that  low- 
lying  land  is  under  water  already.  The  enemy's  guns  would 
sink  in  it." 

He  pointed  away  to  the  southwest  and  I  saw  that  many 
of  the  fields  were  all  moist  and  marshy,  as  though  after 
torrential  rain.     Nearer  to  us,  on  the  dry  land,  a  body  of 
soldiers  marched  up  and  down,  drilling  industriously. 
The  priest  pointed  to  them. 

"  They  fought  untrained,  those  Belgian  boys.  Next  time 
they  will  fight  with  greater  discipline.  But  not  with  greater 
courage.  Monsieur!  I  lift  my  hat  to  the  heroic  spirit  of 
brave  little  Belgium,  which  as  long  as  history  tells  a  splendid 
tale,  will  be  remembered.  May  God  bless  Belgium  and  heal 
its  wounds ! " 

He  took  off  his  broad  black  hat  and  stood  bareheaded, 
with  a  great  wind  blowing  his  soutane,  gazing  at  those 
Belgian  soldiers  who,  after  the  exhaustion  of  retreat,  gathered 
themselves  into  rank  again  and  drilled  so  that  they  might 
fight  once  more  for  the  little  kingdom  they  had  lost. 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      173 

A  few  days  later  I  saw  how  Belgians  were  still  fighting 
on  their  own  soil,  miserable  but  magnificent,  sick  at  heart  but 
dauntless  in  spirit. 

It  was  in  Calais,  to  which  I  had  gone  back  for  a  day  or 
two,  that  I  found  my  chance  to  get  into  the  firing  lines  in 
Belgium.  I  was  sitting  at  an  open  window  with  my  two 
friends  when  I  saw  a  lady's  face  in  the  street.  The  last  time 
I  had  seen  it  was  in  an  old  English  mansion,  filled  with  many 
gallant  and  gentle  ghosts  of  history,  and  with  laughing  girls 
who  went  scampering  out  to  a  game  of  tennis  on  the  lawn 
below  the  terrace  from  which  a  scent  of  roses  and  climbing 
plants  was  wafted  up  on  the  drowsy  air  of  an  English  summer. 
It  was  strange  to  see  one  of  those  girls  in  Calais,  where  such 
a  different  game  was  being  played.  She  had  a  gravity  in  her 
eyes  which  I  had  not  seen  before  in  England,  and  yet,  after- 
wards, I  heard  her  laughter  ring  out  within  a  little  distance 
of  bursting  shells.  She  had  a  motor-car  and  a  pass  to  the 
Belgian  front,  and  a  good  nature  wliich  gave  me  a  free  seat, 
provided  I  was  "jolly  quick."  I  was  so  quick  that,  with  a 
few  things  scrambled  into  a  handbag,  I  was  ready  in  two 
shakes  of  a  jiflTy,  whatever  that  may  be,  and  had  only  time 
to  give  a  hasty  grip  to  the  hands  of  the  two  friends  who 
had  gone  along  many  roads  with  me  in  this  adventure  of  war, 
watching  its  amazing  dramas.  The  Philosopher  and  the 
Strategist  are  but  shadows  in  this  book,  but  though  I  left 
them  on  the  curbstone,  I  took  with  me  the  memory  of  a 
comradeship  which  had  been  good  to  have. 

The  town  of  Furnes,  in  Belgium,  into  which  I  came  when 
dusk  crept  into  its  streets  and  squares,  was  the  headquarters 
of  King  Albert  and  his  staff,  and  its  people  could  hear  all  day 
long  the  roll  of  guns  a  few  kilometers  away,  where  the  remnant 
of  their  army  held  the  line  of  the  Yser  canal  and  the  trenches 
which  barred  the  roads  to  Dixmude,  Pervyse  and  other  little 
towns  And  villages  on  the  last  free  patch  of  Belgian  soil. 

I  drove  into  the  Grande  Place  and  saw  the  beauty  of  this 
old  Flemish  square,  typical  of  a  hundred  others,  not  less 


1T4.  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

quaint  and  Avith  not  less  dignity,  which  had  been  smashed 
to  pieces  by  German  guns.  Three  great  buildings  dominated 
its  architecture  —  the  Town  Hall,  with  a  fine  stately  fa9ade, 
and  two  ancient  churches,  with  massive  brick  towers,  over- 
shadowing the  narrow  old  houses  and  timber-front  shops 
with  stepped  gables  and  wrought-iron  signs.  For  three 
centuries  or  more  time  had  slept  here,  and  no  change  of 
modem  life  had  altered  the  character  of  this  place,  where 
merchant  princes  had  dwelt  around  the  market.  If  there  had 
been  peace  here  in  that  velvety  twilight  which  filled  the 
square  when  I  first  passed  through  it,  I  should  have  expected 
to  see  grave  burghers  in  furred  hoods  pacing  across  the  cob- 
blestones to  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  and  the  florid-faced  knights 
whom  Franz  Hals  loved  to  paint,  quaffing  wine  inside  the 
Hotel  de  la  Couronne,  and  perhaps  a  young  king  in  exile 
known  as  the  Merry  Monarch  smiling  with  a  roguish  eye  at 
some  fair-haired  Flemish  wench  as  he  leaned  on  the  arm  of 
my  lord  of  Rochester  on  his  way  to  his  lodging  on  the  other 
side  of  the  way.  But  here  was  no  peace.  It  was  a  backyard 
of  war,  and  there  was  the  rumble  of  guns  over  the  stones, 
and  a  litter  of  war's  munitions  under  the  church  wall. 
Armored  cars  were  parked  in  the  center  of  the  square,  a 
corps  of  military  cyclists  had  propped  their  machines  against 
gun  wagons  and  forage  carts,  out  of  the  black  shadows 
under  high  walls  poked  the  snouts  of  guns,  wafts  of  scented 
hay  came  from  carts  with  their  shafts  down  in  the  gutters, 
sentries  with  bayonets  which  caught  the  light  of  old  lanterns 
paced  up  and  down  below  the  Town  Hall  steps,  Belgian 
soldiers  caked  in  the  mud  of  the  trenches  slouched  wearily 
in  the  side  streets  and  staff  officers  in  motor-cars  with  glaring 
headlights  threaded  their  way  between  the  wagons  and  the 
guns  with  shrieking  horns.  From  beyond  the  town  dull 
shocks  of  noise  grumbled,  like  distant  thunder  claps,  and 
through  the  tremulous  dusk  of  the  sky  there  came  an  irregular 
repetition  of  faint  flaslies. 

As  the  twilight  deepened  and  the  shadows  merged  into  a 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      175 

general  darkness  I  could  see  candles  being  lit  through  the 
bull's-eye  windows  of  small  shops,  and  the  rank  smell  of 
paraffin  lamps  came  from  vaulted  cellars,  into  which  one 
descended  by  steps  from  the  roadway,  where  soldiers  were 
drinking  cups  of  coffee  or  cheap  wine  in  a  flickering  light 
which  etched  Rembrandt  pictures  upon  one's  vision. 

A  number  of  staff  officers  came  down  the  steps  of  the 
Town  Hall  and  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  as  though 
waiting  for  some  one.  They  had  not  long  to  wait,  for  pres- 
ently a  very  tall  soldier  came  out  to  join  them.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  stood  under  the  portico  lighting  a  cigarette  and  the 
flare  of  his  match  put  a  glamour  upon  his  face.  It  was  the 
King  of  the  Belgians,  distinguished  only  by  his  height  from 
the  simple  soldiers  who  stood  around  him,  and  as  he  came 
down  the  steps  he  had  the  dignity  of  his  own  manhood  but  no 
outward  sign  of  royalty.  I  could  hardly  see  his  face  then, 
but  afterwards  In  the  daylight  I  saw  him  pass  down  the 
lines  of  some  of  his  heroic  regiments  and  saw  his  gravity  and 
the  sadness  of  his  eyes,  and  his  extreme  simplicity.  .  .  The 
first  time  I  had  seen  him  was  in  a  hall  in  Brussels,  when  he 
opened  the  Great  Exhibition  in  royal  state,  In  the  presence 
of  many  princes  and  ministers  and  all  his  Court.  Even  then 
it  seemed  to  me  he  had  a  look  of  sadness  —  it  may  have  been 
no  more  than  shyness  —  as  though  the  shadow  of  some  ap- 
proaching tragedy  touched  his  spirit.  I  spoke  of  it  at  the 
time  to  a  friend  of  mine  and  he  smiled  at  the  foolishness 
of  the  remark. 

Here  in  Fumes  his  personality  was  touched  with  a  kind 
of  sanctity  because  his  kingship  of  the  last  piece  of  Belgian 
soil  symbolized  all  the  ruin  and  desolation  of  his  poor  country 
and  all  the  heroism  of  its  resistance  against  an  overpowering 
enemy  and  all  the  sorrows  of  those  scattered  people  who  still 
gave  him  loyalty.  Men  of  republican  instincts  paid  a 
homage  in  their  hearts  to  this  young  king,  sanctified  by  sor- 
row and  crowned  with  martyrdom.  Living  plainly  as  a 
simple  soldier,  sharing  the  rations,  the  hardships  and     the 


176  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

dangers  of  his  men,  visiting  them  in  their  trenches  and  in  their 
field-hospitals,  steeling  his  nerves  to  the  sight  of  bloody  things 
and  his  heart  to  the  grim  task  of  fighting  to  the  last  ditch 
of  Belgian  ground,  he  seemed  to  be  the  type  of  early  kingship, 
as  it  was  idealized  by  poets  and  minstrels,  when  those  who 
were  anointed  by  the  Church  dedicated  their  souls  to  the 
service  of  the  people  and  their  swords  of  justice.  He  stood 
in  this  modern  world  and  in  this  modem  war  as  the  supreme 
type  of  the  Hero,  and  mythical  stories  are  already  making  a 
legend  of  his  chivalrous  acts  and  virtue,  showing  that  in  spite 
of  all  our  incredulities  and  disillusions  hero-worship  is  still  a 
natural  instinct  in  the  minds  of  men. 

I  had  a  job  to  do  on  my  first  night  in  Furnes,  and  earned  a 
dinner,  for  a  change,  by  honest  work.  The  staff  of  an  Eng- 
lish hospital  with  a  mobile  column  attached  to  the  Belgian 
cavalry  for  picking  up  the  wounded  on  the  field,  had  come  into 
the  town  before  dusk  with  a  convoy  of  ambulances  and  motor- 
cars. They  established  themselves  in  an  old  convent  with 
large  courtyards  and  many  rooms,  and  they  worked  hurriedly 
as  long  as  light  would  allow,  and  afterwards  in  darkness,  to 
get  things  ready  for  their  tasks  next  day,  when  many  wounded 
were  expected.  This  party  of  doctors  and  nnrses,  stretcher- 
bearers  and  chauffeurs,  had  done  splendid  work  in  Belgium. 
Many  of  them  were  in  the  siege  of  Antwerp,  where  they  stayed 
until  the  wounded  had  to  be  taken  away  in  a  hurry;  and 
others,  even  more  daring,  had  retreated  from  town  to  town, 
a  few  kilometers  in  advance  of  the  hostile  troops.  I  had 
met  some  of  the  party  in  Malo-les-Bains,  where  they  had 
reassembled  before  coming  to  Fumes,  and  I  had  been  puzzled 
by  them.  In  the  "  flying  column,"  as  they  called  their 
convoy  of  ambulances,  were  several  ladies  very  practically 
dressed  in  khaki  coats  and  breeches,  and  very  girlish  in 
appearance  and  manners.  They  did  not  seem  to  me  at 
first  sight  the  type  of  woman  to  be  useful  on  a  battlefield 
or  in  a  field-hospital.  I  should  have  expected  them  to  faint 
at  the  sight  of  blood,  and  to  swoon  at  the  bursting  of  a  shell. 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      177 

Some  of  them  at  least  were  too  pretty,  I  thought,  to  play 
about  in  fields  of  war  among  men  and  horses  smashed  to  pulp. 
It  was  only  later  that  I  saw  their  usefulness  and  marveled 
at  the  spiritual  courage  of  these  young  women,  who  seemed 
not  only  careless  of  shell-fire  but  almost  unconscious  of  its 
menace,  and  who,  with  more  nervous  strength  than  that  of 
many  men,  gave  first-aid  to  the  wounded  without  shuddering 
at  sights  of  agony  which  might  turn  a  strong  man  sick. 

It  was  not  an  easy  task  to  settle  down  into  a  new  hospital, 
especially  in  time  of  war  not  far  from  the  enemy's  lines,  and 
as  a  volunteer  in  the  work  I  was  able  to  make  myself  useful 
by  lending  a  hand  with  mattresses  and  beds  and  heavy  cases 
of  medical  material.  It  was  a  strange  experience,  as  far  as  I 
was  concerned,  and  sometimes  seemed  a  little  unreal  as,  with 
a  bed  on  my  head,  I  staggered  across  dark  courtyards,  or 
with  my  arms  full  of  lint  and  dressings,  I  groped  my  way  down 
the  long,  unlighted  corridors  of  a  Flemish  convent.  Nurses 
chivvied  about  with  little  squeals  of  laughter  as  they  bumped 
into  each  other  out  of  the  shadow  world,  but  not  losing  their 
heads  or  their  hands,  with  so  much  work  to  do.  Framed 
in  one  or  other  of  the  innumerable  doorways  stood  a  Belgian 
nun,  with  a  white  face,  staring  out  upon  those  flitting 
shadows.  The  young  doctors  had.  flung  their  coats  off  and 
were  handling  the  heaAaest  stuff  like  dock  laborers  at  trade 
union  rates,  though  with  more  agility.  I  made  friends  with 
them  on  the  other  side  of  cases  too  heavy  for  one  man  to 
handle  —  with  a  golden-haired,  blue-eyed  boy  from  Bart's  (I 
think),  who  made  the  most  preposterous  jokes  in  the  dark- 
ness, so  that  I  laughed  and  nearly  dropped  my  end  of  the  box 
(I  saw  him  in  the  days  to  come  doing  heroic  and  untiring  work 
in  the  operating  theater),  and  with  another  young  surgeon 
whose  keen,  grave  face  lighted  up  marvelously  when  an  ironi- 
cal smile  caught  fire  in  his  brooding  eyes,  and  with  other  men 
in  this  hospital  and  ambulance  column  who  will  be  remem- 
bered in  Belgium  as  fine  and  fearless  men.  With  the  super- 
intendent of  the  commissariat  department  —  an  Italian  lady 


178         THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

with  a  pretty  sense  of  humor  and  a  devil-may-care  courage 
which  she  inherited  from  Stuart  ancestors  —  I  went  on  a 
shopping  expedition  into  the  black  gulfs  of  Fumes,  stumbling 
into  holes  and  jerking  up  against  invisible  gun-wagons,  but 
bringing  back  triumphantly  some  fat  bacon  and,  more  pre- 
cious still,  some  boxes  of  tallow  candles,  of  great  worth  in  a 
town  which  had  lost  its  gas. 

I  lighted  dozens  of  these  candles,  like  an  acolyte  in  a 
Catholic  church,  setting  them  in  their  own  grease  on  window- 
sills  and  ledges  of  the  long  corridors,  so  that  the  work  of 
moving  might  go  on  more  steadily.  But  there  was  a  wind 
blowing  and  at  the  bang  of  distant  doors  out  went  one 
candle  after  another,  and  nurses  carrying  other  candles  and 
shielding  the  little  flames  with  careful  hands  cried  in  laughing 
dismay  as  they  were  puffed  out  by  malicious  draughts. 

There  was  chaos  in  the  kitchen,  but  out  of  it  came  order 
and  a  good  meal,  served  in  the  convent  refectory,  where  the 
flickering  light  of  candles  in  beer-bottles  sheltered  from  the 
wind,  gleamed  upon  holy  pictures  of  the  Sacred  Heart  and  • 
the  Madonna  and  Child  and  glinted  upon  a  silver  crucifix 
where  the  Man  of  Sorrows  looked  down  upon  a  supper  party 
of  men  and  women  who,  whatever  their  creed  or  faith  or 
unbelief,  had  dedicated  themselves  to  relieve  a  suffering 
humanity  with  a  Christian  chivalry  —  which  did  not  prevent 
the  blue-eyed  boy  from  making  most  pagan  puns,  or  the 
company  in  general  from  laughing  as  though  war  were  all  a 
jest. 

Having  helped  to  wash  up  —  the  young  surgeons  fell  into 
queue  before  the  washtubs  —  I  went  out  into  the  courtyard 
again.  Horses  were  stabled  there,  guarded  by  a  man  who 
read  a  book  by  the  rays  of  an  old  lantern,  which  was  a  little 
oasis  of  light  in  this  desert  of  darkness.  The  horses  were 
listening.  Every  now  and  then  they  jerked  their  heads  up 
in  a  frightened  way.  From  a  few  miles  away  came  the  boom 
of  great  guns,  and  the  black  sky  quivered  with  tremulous 
bars  of  light  as  shell  after  shell  burst  somewhere  over  the 


EAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      179 

heads  of  men  waiting  for  death.  With  one  of  the  doctors, 
two  of  the  nurses,  and  a  man  who  led  the  way,  I  chmbcd  up 
to  a  high  room  in  the  convent  roof.  Through  a  dormer 
window  we  looked  out  across  the  flat  country  beyond  Furnes 
and  saw,  a  few  miles  away,  the  lines  of  battle.  Some  village 
was  burning  there,  a  steady  torch  under  a  heavy  cloud  of 
smoke  made  rosy  and  beautiful  as  a  great  flower  over  the 
scarlet  flames.  Shells  were  bursting  with  bouquets  of  light 
and  then  scattered  stars  into  the  sky.  Short,  sharp  stabs 
revealed  a  Belgian  battery  and  very  clearly  we  could  hear  the 
roll  of  field  guns,  followed  by  enormous  concussions  of  heavy 
artillery. 

"  There  will  be  work  to  do  to-morrow !  "  said  one  of  the 
nurses.  Work  came  before  it  was  expected  in  the  morning. 
Quite  early  some  Belgian  ambulances  came  up  to  the  great 
gate  of  the  convent  loaded  with  wounded.  A  few  beds  were 
made  ready  for  them  and  they  were  brought  in  by  the 
stretcher-bearers  and  dressers.  Some  of  them  could  stagger 
in  alone,  with  the  help  of  a  strong  arm,  but  others  were  at  the 
point  of  death  as  they  lay  rigid  on  their  stretchers  wet  with 
blood.  For  the  first  time  I  felt  the  weight  of  a  man  who  lies 
unconscious,  and  strained  my  stomach  as  I  helped  to  carry 
these  poor  Belgian  soldiers.  And  for  the  first  time  I  had 
round  my  neck  the  arm  of  a  man  who  finds  each  footstep  a 
torturing  effort,  and  who  after  a  pace  or  two  halts  and 
groans,  and  loses  the  strength  of  his  legs,  so  that  all  his 
weight  hangs  upon  that  clinging  arm.  Several  times  I 
nearly  let  these  soldiers  fall,  so  great  was  the  burden  weigh- 
ing down  my  shoulders.  It  was  only  by  a  kind  of  prayer 
that  I  could  hold  them  up  and  guide  them  to  the  great  room 
where  stretchers  were  laid  out  for  lack  of  beds. 

In  a  little  while  the  great  hall  where  I  had  helped  to  sort 
out  packages  was  a  hospital  ward  where  doctors  and  nurses 
worked  very  quietly  and  from  which  there  came  faint  groans 
of  anguish,  horrible  in  their  significance.  Already  it  was 
filled  with  that  stench  of  blood  and  dirt  and  iodoform  which 


180  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

afterwards  used  to  sicken  me  as  I  helped  to  carry  in  the 
wounded  or  carry  out  the  dead. 

In  the  courtyard  the  flying  column  was  getting  ready  to 
set  out  in  search  of  other  wounded  men,  not  yet  rescued 
from  the  firing  line.  The  officer  in  command  was  a  young 
Belgian  gentleman,  Lieutenant  de  Broqueville,  the  son  of  the 
Belgian  Prime  Minister,  and  a  man  of  knightly  valor.  He 
was  arranging  the  order  of  the  day  with  Dr.  Munro,  who  had 
organized  the  ambulance  convoy,  leading  it  through  a  series 
of  amazing  adventures  and  misadventures  —  not  yet  to  be 
written  in  history  —  to  this  halting-place  at  Fumes.  Three 
ladies  in  field  kit  stood  by  their  cars  waiting  for  the  day's 
commands,  and  there  were  four  stretcher-bearers,  of  whom 
I  was  the  newest  recruit.  Among  them  was  an  American 
journalist  named  Gleeson,  who  had  put  aside  his  pen  for 
a  while  to  do  manual  work  in  fields  of  agony,  proving  himself 
to  be  a  man  of  calm  and  quiet  courage,  always  ready  to  take 
great  risks  in  order  to  bring  in  a  stricken  soldier.  I  came 
to  know  him  as  a  good  comrade,  and  in  this  page  greet  hira 
again. 

The  story  of  the  adventure  which  we  went  out  to  meet 
that  day  was  written  in  the  night  that  followed  it,  as  I  lay 
on  straw  with  a  candle  by  my  side,  and  because  it  was 
written  with  the  emotion  of  a  great  experience  still  thrilling 
in  my  brain  and  with  its  impressions  undimmed  by  any 
later  pictures  of  the  war  I  will  give  it  here  again  as  it  first 
appeared  in  the  columns  of  the  Daily  Chronicle,  suppressing 
only  a  name  or  two  because  those  whom  I  wished  to  honor 
hated  my  publicity. 

We  set  out  before  noon,  winding  our  way  through  the 
streets  of  Furnes,  which  were  still  crowded  with  soldiers  and 
wagons.  In  the  Town  Hall  square  we  passed  through  a  mass 
of  people  who  surrounded  a  body  of  150  German  prisoners 
who  had  just  been  brought  in  from  the  front.  It  was  a  cheer- 
ing sight  for  Belgians  who  had  been  so  long  in  retreat  before 
an  overpowering  enemy.     It  was  a  sign  that  the  tide  of  for- 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      181 

tune  was  changing.  Presently  we  were  out  in  open  country, 
by  the  side  of  the  Yser  Canal.  It  seemed  very  peaceful  and 
quiet.  Even  the  guns  were  silent  now,  and  the  flat  landscape, 
with  its  long,  straight  lines  of  poplars  between  the  low-lying 
fields,  had  a  spirit  of  tranquillity  in  the  morning  sunlight.  It 
seemed  impossible  to  believe  that  only  a  few  kilometers  away 
great  armies  were  ranged  against  each  other  in  a  death- 
struggle.  But  only  for  a  little  while.  The  spirit  of  war  was 
forced  upon  our  imagination  by  scenes  upon  the  roadside.  A 
squadron  of  Belgian  cavalry  rode  by  on  tired  horses.  The 
men  were  dirty  in  the  service  of  war,  and  haggard  after  long 
privations  in  the  field.  Yet  they  looked  hard  and  resolute, 
and  saluted  us  with  smiles  as  we  passed.  Some  of  them 
shouted  out  a  question:  "Anglais?"  They  seemed  sur- 
prised and  glad  to  see  British  ambulances  on  their  way  to  the 
front.  Belgian  infantrymen  trudged  with  slung  rifles  along 
the  roads  of  the  villages  through  which  we  passed.  At  one 
of  our  halts,  while  we  waited  for  instructions  from  the  Belgian 
Headquarters,  a  group  of  these  soldiers  sat  in  the  parlor  of 
an  inn  singing  a  love-song  in  chorus.  One  young  officer 
swayed  up  and  down  in  a  rhythmic  dance,  waving  his  ciga- 
rette. He  had  been  wounded  in  the  arm,  and  knew  the  horror 
of  the  trenches,  but  for  a  little  while  he  forgot,  and  was  very 
gay  because  he  was  alive. 

Our  trouble  was  to  know  where  to  go.  The  fighting  on 
the  previous  night  had  covered  a  wide  area,  but  a  good  many 
of  the  wounded  had  been  brought  back.  Where  the  wounded 
still  lay  the  enemy's  shell-fire  was  so  heavy  that  the  Belgian 
ambulances  could  get  nowhere  near.  Lieutenant  de  Broque- 
ville  was  earnestly  requested  not  to  lead  his  little  column  into 
unnecessary  risks,  especially  as  it  was  difficult  to  know  the 
exact  position  of  the  enemy  until  reports  came  in  from  the 
field  officers. 

It  was  astonishing  —  as  it  is  always  in  war  —  to  find  how 
soldiers  quite  near  to  the  front  are  in  utter  ignorance  of  the 
course  of  a  great  battle.     Many  of  the  officers  and  men  with 


18a  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

whom  we  talked  could  not  tell  us  where  the  allied  forces 
were,  nor  where  the  enemy  was  in  position,  nor  whether  the 
heavy  fighting  during  the  last  day  and  night  had  been  to 
the  advantage  of  the  Allies  or  the  Germans.  They  believed, 
but  were  not  sure,  that  the  enemy  had  been  driven  back 
many  kilometers  between  Nieuport  and  Dixmude. 

At  last,  after  many  discussions  and  many  halts,  we 
received  our  orders.  We  were  asked  to  get  into  the  town  of 
Dixmude,  where  there  were  many  wounded. 

It  was  about  sixteen  kilometers  away  from  Fumes,  and 
about  half  that  distance  from  where  we  had  halted  for  lunch. 
Not  very  far  away,  it  will  be  seen,  yet,  as  we  went  along  the 
road,  nearer  to  the  sound  of  great  guns  which  for  the  last 
hour  or  two  had  been  firing  incessantly  again,  we  passed  many 
women  and  children.  It  had  only  just  occurred  to  them  that 
death  was  round  the  corner,  and  that  there  was  no  more 
security  in  those  little  stone  or  plaster  houses  of  theirs,  which 
in  time  of  peace  had  been  safe  homes  against  all  the  evils  of 
life.  It  had  come  to  their  knowledge,  very  slowly,  that  they 
were  of  no  more  protection  than  tissue  paper  under  a  rain  of 
lead.  So  they  were  now  leaving  for  a  place  at  longer  range. 
Poor  old  grandmothers  in  black  bonnets  and  skirts  trudged 
under  the  lines  of  poplars,  with  younger  women  who  clasped 
their  babes  tight  in  one  hand  while  with  the  other  they  carried 
heavy  bundles  of  household  goods.  They  did  not  walk  very 
fast.  They  did  not  seem  very  much  afraid.  They  had  a 
kind  of  patient  misery  in  their  look.  Along  the  road  came 
some  more  German  prisoners,  marching  rapidly  between 
mounted  guards.  Many  of  them  were  wounded,  and  all  of 
them  had  a  wild,  famished,  terror-stricken  look.  I  caught 
the  savage  glare  of  their  eyes  as  they  stared  into  my  car. 
There  was  something  beast-like  and  terrible  in  their  gaze  like 
that  of  hunted  animals  caught  in  a  trap. 

At  a  turn  in  the  road  the  battle  lay  before  us,  and  we  were 
in  the  zone  of  fire.  Away  across  the  fields  was  a  line  of  vil- 
lages, with  the  town  of  Dixmude  a  little  to  the  right  of  us, 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      183 

perhaps  two  kilometers  away.  From  each  little  town  smoke 
was  rising  in  separate  colunms,  which  met  at  the  top  in  a 
great  pall  of  smoke,  as  a  heavy  black  cloud  cresting  above  the 
light  on  the  horizon  line.  At  every  moment  this  blackness 
was  brightened  by  pull's  of  electric  blue,  extraordinarily  vivid, 
as  shells  burst  in  the  air.  Then  the  color  gradually  faded 
out,  and  the  smoke  darkened  and  became  part  of  the  pall. 
From  the  mass  of  houses  in  each  town  came  jabs  of  flame, 
following  the  explosions  which  sounded  with  terrific,  thudding 
shocks. 

Upon  a  line  of  fifteen  kilometers  there  was  an  incessant 
cannonade,  and  in  every  town  there  was  a  hell.  The  furthest 
villages  were  already  alight.  I  watched  how  the  flames  rose, 
and  became  great  glowing  furnaces,  terribly  beautiful.  Quite 
close  to  us  —  only  a  kilometer  away  across  the  fields  to  the  left 
—  there  were  Belgian  batteries  at  Avork,  and  rifle  fire  from 
many  trenches.  We  were  between  two  fires,  and  the  Belgian 
and  German  shells  came  screeching  across  our  heads.  The 
enemy's  shells  were  dropping  close  to  us,  plowing  up  the 
fields  with  great  pits.  We  could  hear  them  burst  and  scatter, 
and  could  see  them  burrow.  In  front  of  us  on  the  road  lay 
a  dreadful  barrier,  which  brought  us  to  a  halt.  An  enemy's 
shell  had  fallen  right  on  top  of  an  ammunition  convoy.  Four 
horses  had  been  blown  to  pieces,  and  lay  strewn  across  the 
road.  The  ammunition  wagon  had  been  broken  into  frag- 
ments, and  smashed  and  burned  to  cinders  by  the  explosion  of 
its  own  shells.  A  Belgian  soldier  lay  dead,  cut  in  half  by  a 
great  fragment  of  steel.  Further  along  the  road  were  two 
other  dead  horses  in  pools  of  blood.  It  was  a  horrible  and 
sickening  sight  from  which  one  turned  away  shuddering  with  a 
cold  sweat.  But  we  had  to  pass  after  some  of  this  dead  flesh 
had  been  dragged  away.  Further  down  the  road  we  had  left 
two  of  the  cars  in  charge  of  the  three  ladies.  They  were  to 
wait  there  until  we  brought  back  some  of  the  wounded, 
whom  they  would  take  from  us  so  that  we  could  fetch  some 
more  out  of  Dixmude.     The  two  ambulances  came  on  with 


184.  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

our  light  car,  commanded  by  Lieutenant  de  Broqueville  and 
Dr.  Munro.  Mr.  Gleeson  asked  me  to  help  him  on  the  other 
end  of  his  own  stretcher. 

I  think  I  may  say  that  none  of  us  quite  guessed  what  was 
in  store  for  us.  At  least  I  did  not  guess  that  we  had  been 
asked  to  go  into  the  open  mouth  of  Death.  I  had  only  a 
vague  idea  that  Dixmude  would  be  just  a  little  worse  than 
the  place  at  which  we  now  halted  for  final  instructions  as  to 
the  geography  of  the  town. 

It  was  a  place  which  made  me  feel  suddenly  cold,  in  spite 
of  a  little  sweat  which  made  my  hands  moist. 

It  was  a  halt  between  a  group  of  cottages,  where  Belgian 
soldiers  were  huddled  close  to  the  walls  under  the  timber  beams 
of  the  barns.  Several  of  the  cottages  were  already  smashed 
by  shell  fire.  There  was  a  great  gaping  hole  through  one  of 
the  roofs.  The  roadway  was  strewn  with  bricks  and  plaster, 
and  every  now  and  then  a  group  of  men  scattered  as  shrapnel 
bullets  came  pattering  down.  We  were  in  an  inferno  of 
noise.  It  seemed  as  though  we  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  guns 
within  sight  of  each  other's  muzzles.  I  was  deafened  and  a 
little  dazed,  but  very  clear  in  the  head,  so  that  my  thoughts 
seemed  extraordinarily  vivid.  I  was  thinking,  among  other 
things,  of  how  soon  I  should  be  struck  by  one  of  those  flying 
bullets,  like  the  men  who  lay  moaning  inside  the  doorway  of 
one  of  the  cottages.  On  a  calculation  of  chances  it  could  not 
be  long. 

The  Belgian  official  in  charge  of  this  company  was  very 
courteous  and  smiling.  It  was  only  by  a  sudden  catch  of  the 
breath  between  his  words  that  one  guessed  at  the  excitement 
of  his  brain.  He  explained  to  us,  at  what  seemed  to  me  need- 
less length,  the  ease  with  which  we  could  get  into  Dixmude, 
where  there  were  many  wounded.  He  drew  a  map  of  the 
streets,  so  that  we  could  find  the  way  to  the  Hotel  de  Ville, 
where  some  of  them  lay.  We  thanked  him,  and  told  the 
chauffeurs  to  move  on.  I  was  in  one  of  the  ambulances  and 
Gleeson   sat  behind   me   in   the   narrow   space   between    the 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      185 

stretchers.  Over  my  shoulder  he  talked  in  a  quiet  voice  of 
the  job  that  lay  before  us.  I  was  glad  of  that  quiet  voice, 
so  placid  in  its  courage. 

We  went  forward  at  what  seemed  to  me  a  crawl,  though  I 
think  in  was  a  fair  pace.  The  shells  were  bursting  round  us 
now  on  all  sides.  Shrapnel  bullets  sprayed  the  earth  about 
us.  It  appeared  to  me  an  odd  thing  that  we  were  still 
alive. 

Then  we  came  into  Dixmude.  It  was  a  fair-sized  town, 
with  many  beautiful  buildings,  and  fine  old  houses  in  the 
Flemish  style  —  so  I  was  told.  When  I  saw  it  for  the  first 
time  it  was  a  place  of  death  and  horror.  The  streets  through 
which  we  passed  were  utterly  deserted  and  wrecked  from  end 
to  end  as  though  by  an  earthquake.  Incessant  explosions  of 
shell-fire  crashed  down  upon  the  walls  which  still  stood. 
Great  gashes  opened  in  the  walls,  which  then  toppled  and  fell. 
A  roof  came  tumbling  down  with  an  appalling  clatter.  Like 
a  house  of  cards  blown  down  by  a  puff  of  wind  a  little  shop 
suddenly  collapsed  into  a  mass  of  ruins.  Here  and  there, 
farther  into  the  town,  we  saw  living  figures.  They  ran 
swiftly  for  a  moment  and  then  disappeared  into  dark  caverns 
under  toppling  porticos.     They  were  Belgian  soldiers. 

We  were  now  in  a  side  street  leading  into  the  Town  Hall 
square.  It  seemed  impossible  to  pass  owing  to  the  wreckage 
strewn  across  the  road. 

"  Try  to  take  it,"  said  Dr.  Munro,  who  was  sitting  beside 
the  chauffeur. 

We  took  it,  bumping  over  the  high  debris,  and  then  swept 
round  into  the  square.  It  was  a  spacious  place,  with  the 
Town  Hall  at  one  side  of  it,  or  what  was  left  of  the  Town 
Hall.  There  was  only  the  splendid  shell  of  it  left,  sufficient 
for  us  to  see  the  skeleton  of  a  noble  building  which  had  once 
been  the  pride  of  Flemish  craftsmen.  Even  as  we  turned 
towards  it  parts  of  it  were  falling  upon  the  ruins  already  on 
the  ground.  I  saw  a  great  pillar  lean  forward  and  then 
topple  down.     A  mass  of  masonry  crashed  down  from  the 


186  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

portico.  Some  stiff,  dark  forms  lay  among  the  fallen  stones. 
They  were  dead  soldiers.  I  hardly  glanced  at  them,  for  we 
were  in  search  of  living  men.  The  cars  were  brought  to  a 
halt  outside  the  building  and  we  all  climbed  down.  I  lighted 
a  cigarette,  and  I  noticed  two  of  the  other  men  fumble  for 
matches  for  the  same  purpose.  We  wanted  something  to 
steady  us.  There  was  never  a  moment  when  shell-fire  was  not 
bursting  in  that  square  about  us.  The  shrapnel  bullets 
whipped  the  stones.  The  enemy  was  making  a  target  of  the 
Hotel  de  Ville,  and  dropping  shells  with  dreadful  exact- 
itude on  either  side  of  it.  I  glanced  towards  a  flaring  furnace 
to  the  right  of  the  building.  There  was  a  wonderful  glow  at 
the  heart  of  it.  Yet  it  did  not  give  me  any  warmth  at  that 
moment. 

Dr.  Munro  and  Lieutenant  de  Broqueville  mounted  the 
steps  of  the  Town  Hall,  followed  by  another  brancardier  and 
myself.  Gleeson  was  already  taking  down  a  stretcher.  He 
had  a  little  smile  about  his  lips. 

A  French  officer  and  two  men  stood  under  the  broken  arch- 
way of  the  entrance  between  the  fallen  pillars  and  masonry. 
A  yard  away  from  them  lay  a  dead  soldier  —  a  handsome 
young  man  with  clear-cut  features  turned  upwards  to  the 
gaping  roof.  A  stream  of  blood  was  coagulating  round  his 
head,  but  did  not  touch  the  beauty  of  his  face.  Another  dead 
man  lay  huddled  up  quite  close,  and  his  face  was  hidden. 

"  Are  there  any  wounded  here,  sir?  "  asked  our  young  lieu- 
tenant. 

The  other  officer  spoke  excitedly.  He  was  a  brave  man, 
but  could  not  hide  the  terror  of  his  soul  because  he  had  been 
standing  so  long  Avaiting  for  death  which  stood  beside  him  but 
did  not  touch  him.  It  appeared  from  his  words  that  there 
were  several  wounded  men  among  the  dead,  down  in  the  cellar. 
He  would  be  obliged  to  us  if  we  could  rescue  them. 

We  stood  on  some  steps  looking  do^vn  into  that  cellar.  It 
was  a  dark  hole  —  illumined  dimly  by  a  lantern,  I  think.  I 
caught  sight  of  a  little  heap  of  huddled  bodies.     Two  soldiers 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      187 

still  unwounded,  dragged  three  of  them  out,  handed  them  up, 
delivered  them  to  us.  The  work  of  getting  those  three  men 
into  the  first  ambulance  seemed  to  us  interminable.  It  was 
really  no  more  than  fifteen  to  twenty  minutes,  while  they  were 
being  arranged.  During  that  time  Dr.  Munro  was  moving 
about  the  square  in  a  dreamy  sort  of  way,  like  a  poet  med- 
itating on  love  or  flowers  in  May.  Lieutenant  de  Broqueville 
was  making  inquiries  about  other  wounded  in  other  houses. 
I  lent  a  hand  to  one  of  the  stretcher-bearers.  What  others 
were  doing  I  don't  know,  except  that  Gleeson's  calm  face 
made  a  clear-cut  image  on  my  brain.  I  had  lost  conscious- 
ness of  myself.  Something  outside  myself,  as  it  seemed,  was 
talking  now  that  there  was  no  way  of  escape,  that  it  was 
monstrous  to  suppose  that  all  these  bursting  shells  would  not 
smash  the  ambulances  to  bits  and  finish  the  agony  of  the 
wounded,  and  that  death  is  very  hideous.  I  remember  think- 
ing also  how  ridiculous  it  is  for  men  to  kill  each  other  like 
this,  and  to  make  such  hells. 

Then  Lieutenant  de  Broqueville  spoke  a  word  of  command. 
"  The  first  ambulance  must  now  get  back." 

I  was  with  the  first  ambulance,  in  Gleeson's  company.  We 
had  a  full  load  of  wounded  men  —  and  we  were  loitering.  I 
put  my  head  outside  the  cover  and  gave  the  word  to  the 
chauffeur.  As  I  did  so  a  shrapnel  bullet  came  past  my  head, 
and,  striking  a  piece  of  ironwork,  flattened  out  and  fell  at  my 
feet.  I  picked  it  up  and  put  it  in  my  pocket  —  though  God 
alone  knows  why,  for  I  was  not  in  search  of  souvenirs.  So 
we  started  with  the  first  ambulance,  through  those  frightful 
streets  again,  and  out  into  the  road  to  the  country. 

"  Very  hot,"  said  one  of  the  men.  I  think  it  was  the 
chauffeur.  Somebody  else  asked  if  we  should  get  through 
with  luck. 

Nobody  answered  the  question.  The  wounded  men  with  us 
were  very  quiet.  I  thought  they  were  dead.  There  was 
only  the  incessant  cannonade  and  the  crashing  of  buildings. 
Mitrailleuses  were  at  work  now  spitting  out  bullets.     It  was 


188  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

a  worse  sound  than  the  shells.  It  seemed  more  deadly  in 
its  rattle.  I  stared  back  behind  the  car  and  saw  the  other 
ambulance  in  our  wake.  I  did  not  sec  the  motor-car.  Along 
the  country  road  the  fields  were  still  being  plowed  by  shell, 
which  burst  over  our  heads.  We  came  to  a  halt  again  at  the 
place  where  the  soldiers  were  crouched  under  the  cottage 
walls.  There  were  few  walls  now,  and  inside  some  of  the 
remaining  cottages  many  wounded  men.  Their  own  comrades 
were  giving  them  first  aid,  and  wiping  the  blood  out  of  their 
eyes.  We  managed  to  take  some  of  these  on  board.  They 
were  less  quiet  than  the  others  we  had,  and  groaned  in  a  heart- 
rending way. 

And  then,  a  little  later,  we  made  a  painful  discovery. 
Lieutenant  de  Broqueville,  our  gallant  young  leader,  was 
missing.  By  some  horrible  mischance  he  had  not  taken  his 
place  in  either  of  the  ambulances  or  the  motor-car.  None  of 
us  had  the  least  idea  what  had  happened  to  him.  We  had 
all  imagined  that  he  had  scrambled  up  like  the  rest  of  us, 
after  giving  the  order  to  get  away.  We  looked  at  each  other 
in  dismay.  There  was  only  one  thing  to  do,  to  go  back  in 
search  of  him.  Even  in  the  half-hour  since  we  had  left  the 
town  Dixmude  had  burst  into  flames  and  was  a  great  blazing 
torch.  If  young  de  Broqueville  were  left  in  that  furnace  he 
would  not  have  a  chance  of  life. 

It  was  Gleeson  and  another  stretcher-bearer  who  with  great 
gallantry  volunteered  to  go  back  and  search  for  our  leader. 
They  took  the  light  car  and  sped  back  towards  the  burning 
town. 

The  ambulances  went  on  with  their  cargo  of  wounded,  and 
I  was  left  in  a  car  with  one  of  the  ladies  while  Dr.  Munro 
was  ministering  to  a  man  on  the  point  of  death.  It  was  the 
girl  whom  I  had  seen  on  the  lawn  of  an  old  English  house  in 
the  days  before  the  war.  She  was  very  worried  about  the 
fate  of  de  Broqueville,  and  anxious  be^^ond  words  as  to  what 
would  befall  the  three  friends  who  were  now  missing.  We 
drove  back  along  the  road  towards  Dixmude,  and  rescued 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      189 

another  wounded  man  left  in  a  waj^side  cottage.  By  this 
time  there  were  five  towns  blazing  in  the  darkness,  and  in 
spite  of  the  awful  suspense  which  we  were  now  suffering,  we 
could  not  help  staring  at  the  fiendish  splendor  of  that  sight. 
Dr.  Munro  joined  us  again,  and  after  a  consultation  we  de- 
cided to  get  as  near  Dixmude  as  we  could,  in  case  our  friends 
had  to  come  out  without  their  car  or  wounded. 

The  enemy's  bombardment  was  now  terrific.  All  its  guns 
were  concentrated  upon  Dixmude  and  the  surrounding 
trenches.  In  the  darkness  close  under  a  stable  wall  I  stood 
listening  to  the  great  crashes  for  an  hour,  when  I  had  not 
expected  such  a  grace  of  life.  Inside  the  stable,  soldiers  were 
sleeping  in  the  straw,  careless  that  any  moment  a  shell  might 
burst  through  upon  them  and  give  them  unwaking  sleep. 
The  hour  seemed  a  night.  Then  we  saw  the  gleam  of  head- 
lights, and  an  English  voice  called  out. 

Our  two  friends  had  come  back.  They  had  gone  to  the 
entry  of  Dixmude,  but  could  get  no  further  owing  to  the 
flames  and  shells.  They,  too,  had  waited  for  an  hour,  but 
had  not  found  de  Broqucville.  It  seemed  certain  that  he  was 
dead,  and  very  sorrowfully,  as  there  was  nothing  to  be  done, 
we  drove  back  to  Fumes. 

At  the  gate  of  the  convent  were  some  Belgian  ambulances 
which  had  come  from  another  part  of  the  front  with  their 
wounded.  I  helped  to  carry  one  of  them  in,  and  strained  my 
shoulders  with  the  weight  of  the  stretcher.  Another  wounded 
man  put  his  arm  round  my  neck,  and  then,  with  a  dreadful 
cry,  collapsed,  so  that  I  had  to  hold  him  in  a  strong  grip. 
A  third  man,  horribly  smashed  about  the  head,  walked  almost 
unaided  into  the  operating-room.  Gleeson  and  I  led  him, 
with  just  a  touch  on  his  arm.  Next  morning  he  lay  dead  on 
a  little  pile  of  straw  in  a  quiet  corner  of  the  courtyard. 

I  sat  down  to  a  supper  which  I  had  not  expected  to  eat. 
There  was  a  strange  excitement  in  my  body,  which  trembled 
a  little  after  the  day's  adventures.  It  seemed  very  strange 
to  be  sitting  down  to  table  with  cheerful  faces  about  me. 


190  THE     SOUL     OF    THE     WAR 

But  some  of  the  faces  were  not  cheerful.  Those  of  us  who 
knew  of  the  disappearance  of  de  Broqueville  sat  silently  over 
our  soup. 

Then  suddenly  there  was  a  sharp  exclamation  of  surprise 
—  of  sheer  amazement  —  and  Lieutenant  de  Broqueville  came 
walking  briskly  forward,  alive  and  well.  ...  It  seemed  a 
miracle. 

It  was  hardly  less  than  that.  For  several  hours  after  our 
departure  from  Dixmude  he  had  remained  in  that  inferno. 
He  had  missed  us  when  he  went  down  into  the  cellars  to  haul 
out  another  wounded  man,  forgetting  that  he  had  given  us 
the  order  to  start.  There  he  had  remained  with  the  buildings 
crashing  all  around  him  until  the  enemy's  fire  had  died  down 
a  little.  He  succeeded  in  rescuing  his  wounded,  for  whom  he 
found  room  in  a  Belgian  ambulance  outside  the  town,  and 
walked  back  along  the  road  to  Fumes.  So  we  gripped  his 
hands  and  were  thankful  for  his  escape. 

Early  next  morning  I  went  into  Dixmude  again  with  some 
of  the  men  belonging  to  the  "  flying  column."  It  was  more 
than  probable  that  there  were  still  a  number  of  wounded  men 
there,  if  any  of  them  were  left  alive  after  that  night  of  horror 
when  they  lay  in  cellars  or  under  the  poor  shelter  of  broken 
walls.  Perhaps  also  there  were  men  but  lately  wounded,  for 
before  the  dawn  had  come  some  of  the  Belgian  infantry  had 
been  sent  into  the  outlying  streets  with  mitrailleuses,  and  on 
the  opposite  side  German  infantry  were  in  possession  of  other 
streets  or  of  other  ruins,  so  that  bullets  were  ripping  across 
the  mangled  town.  The  artillery  was  fairly  quiet.  Only  a 
few  shells  were  bursting  over  the  Belgian  lines  —  enough  to 
keep  the  air  rumbling  with  irregular  thunderclaps.  But  as 
we  approached  the  corner  where  we  had  waited  for  news  of  de 
Broqueville  one  of  these  shells  burst  very  close  to  us  and 
plowed  up  a  big  hole  in  a  field  across  the  roadside  ditch.  We 
drove  more  swiftly  with  empty  cars  and  came  into  the  streets 
of  Dixmude.  They  were  sheets  of  fire,  burning  without  flame 
but  with  a  steady  glow  of  embers.     They  were  but  cracked 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      191 

shells  of  houses,  unroofed  and  swept  clean  of  their  floors  and 
furniture,  so  that  all  but  the  bare  walls  and  a  few  charred 
beams  had  been  consumed  by  the  devouring  appetite  of  fire. 
Now  and  again  one  of  the  beams  broke  and  fell  with  a  crash 
into  the  glowing  heart  of  the  furnace,  which  had  once  been  a 
Flemish  house,  raising  a  fountain  of  sparks.  Further  into 
the  town,  however,  there  stood,  by  the  odd  freakishness  of 
an  artillery  bombardment,  complete  houses  hardly  touched  by 
shells  and,  very  neat  and  prim,  between  masses  of  shapeless 
ruins.  One  street  into  which  I  drove  was  so  undamaged  that 
I  could  hardly  believe  my  eyes,  having  looked  back  the  night 
before  to  one  great  torch  which  men  called  "  Dixmude." 
Nevertheless  some  of  its  window-frames  had  bulged  with  heat, 
and  panes  of  glass  fell  with  a  splintering  noise  on  to  the  stone 
pavement.  As  I  passed  a  hail  of  shrapnel  was  suddenly  flung 
upon  the  wall  on  one  side  of  the  street  and  the  bullets  played 
at  marbles  in  the  roadway.  In  this  street  some  soldiers  were 
grouped  about  two  wounded  men,  one  of  them  only  lightly 
touched,  the  other  —  a  French  marine  —  at  the  point  of 
death,  lying  very  still  in  a  huddled  way  with  a  clay-colored 
face  smeared  with  blood.  We  picked  them  up  and  put  them 
into  one  of  the  ambulances,  the  dying  man  groaning  a  little 
as  w^e  strapped  him  on  the  stretcher. 

The  Belgian  soldiers  who  had  come  into  the  town  at  dawn 
stood  about  our  ambulances  as  though  our  company  gave 
them  a  little  comfort.  They  did  not  speak  much,  but  had 
grave  wistful  eyes  like  men  tired  of  all  this  misery  about  them 
but  unable  to  escape  from  it.  They  were  young  men  with  a 
stubble  of  fair  hair  on  their  faces  and  many  days'  dirt. 

"  Vous  etes  tres  aimable,"  said  one  of  them  when  I  handed 
him  a  cigarette,  which  he  took  with  a  trembling  hand.  Then 
he  stared  up  the  street  as  another  shower  of  shrapnel  swept 
it,  and  said  in  a  hasty  w^ay,  "  C'est  I'enfer.  .  .  .  Pour  trois 
mois  je  reste  sous  feu.      C'est  trop,  n'est-ce  pas?  " 

But  there  was  no  time  for  conversation  about  war  and 
the  effects  of  war  upon  the  souls  of  men.     The  German  guns 


193  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

were  beginning  to  speak  again,  and  unless  we  made  haste  we 
might  not  rescue  the  wounded  men. 

"  Are  there  many  blesses  here?  "  asked  our  leader. 

One  of  the  soldiers  pointed  to  a  house  which  had  a  tavern 
sign  above  it. 

"  They've  been  taken  inside,"  he  said.  "  I  helped  to  carry 
them."  We  dodged  the  litter  in  the  roadway,  where,  to  my 
amazement,  two  old  ladies  were  searching  in  the  rubbish-heaps 
for  the  relics  of  their  houses.  They  had  stayed  in  Dixmude 
during  this  terrible  bombardment,  hidden  in  some  cellar,  and 
now  had  emerged,  in  their  respectable  black  gowns,  to  see 
what  damage  had  been  done.  They  seemed  to  be  looking  for 
something  in  particular —  some  little  object  not  easy  to  find 
among  these  heaps  of  calcined  stones  and  twisted  bars  of  iron. 
One  old  woman  shook  her  head  sadl}^  as  though  to  say,  "  Dear 
me,  I  can't  see  it  anywhere."  I  wondered  if  they  were  look- 
ing for  some  family  photograph  —  or  for  some  child's  cin- 
ders. It  might  have  been  one  or  the  other,  for  many  of  these 
Belgian  peasants  had  reached  a  point  of  tragedy  when  death 
is  of  no  more  importance  than  any  trivial  loss.  The  earth 
and  sky  had  opened,  swallowing  up  all  their  little  world  in  a 
devilish  destruction.  They  had  lost  the  proportions  of  every- 
day life  in  the  madness  of  things. 

In  the  tavern  there  was  a  Belgian  doctor  with  a  few 
soldiers  to  help  him,  and  a  dozen  wounded  in  the  straw  which 
had  been  put  down  on  the  tiled  floor.  Another  Wounded  man 
was  sitting  on  a  chair  and  the  doctor  was  bandaging  up  a  leg 
which  looked  like  a  piece  of  raw  meat  at  which  dogs  had  been 
gnawing.  Something  in  the  straw  moved  and  gave  a  fright- 
ful groan.  A  boy  soldier  with  his  back  propped  against  the 
wall  had  his  knees  up  to  his  chin  and  his  face  in  his  grimy 
hands  through  which  tears  trickled.  There  was  a  soppy 
bandage  about  his  head.  Two  men  close  to  where  I  stood  lay 
stiff  and  stark,  as  though  quite  dead,  but  when  I  bent  down 
to  them  I  heard  their  hard  breathing  and  the  snuffle  of  their 
nostrils.     The  others  more  lightly  wounded  watched  us  like 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      193 

animals,  without  curiosity  but  with  a  horrible  sort  of  patience 
in  their  eyes,  which  seemed  to  say  "  Nothing  matters.  .  .  . 
Neither  hunger  nor  tliirst  nor  pain.  We  are  living,  but  our 
spirit  is  dead." 

The  doctor  did  not  want  us  to  take  away  his  wounded  at 
once.  The  German  shells  were  coming  heavily  again,  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  town  through  which  we  had  to  pass  on  our 
way  out.  An  officer  had  just  come  into  say  they  were  firing 
at  the  level  crossing  to  prevent  the  Belgian  ambulances  from 
coming  through.  It  would  be  better  to  wait  a  while  before 
going  back  again.     It  was  foolish  to  take  unnecessary  risks. 

I  admit  frankly  that  I  was  anxious  to  go  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible with  these  wounded.  A  shell  burst  over  the  houses  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  street.  When  I  stood  outside  watch- 
ing two  soldiers  who  had  been  sent  further  down  to  bring  in 
two  other  wounded  men  who  lay  in  a  house  there,  I  saw  them 
dodge  into  a  doorway  for  cover  as  another  hail  of  shrapnel 
whipped  the  stones  about  them.  Afterwards  they  made  an 
erratic  course  down  the  street  like  drunken  men,  and  presently 
I  saw  them  staggering  back  again  with  their  wounded  com- 
rades who  had  their  arms  about  the  necks  of  their  rescuers. 
...  I  went  out  to  aid  them,  but  did  not  like  the  psychology 
of  this  street,  where  death  was  teasing  the  footsteps  of  men, 
yapping  at  their  heels. 

I  helped  to  pack  up  one  of  the  ambulances  and  went  back 
to  Furnes  sitting  next  to  the  driver,  but  twisted  round  so  that 
I  could  hold  one  of  the  stretcher  poles  which  wanted  to  jolt 
out  of  its  strap  so  that  the  man  lying  with  a  dead  weight  on 
the  canvas  would  come  down  with  a  smash  upon  the  body  of 
the  man  beneath. 

"  Ca  y  est,"  said  my  driver,  very  cheerfully.  He  was  a 
gentleman  volunteer  with  his  own  ambulance  and  looked  like 
a  sea-faring  man  in  his  round  yachting  cap  and  blue  jersey. 
He  did  not  speak  much  French,  I  fancy,  but  I  loved  to  hear 
him  say  that  "  Ca  y  est,"  when  he  raised  a  stretcher  in  his 
hefty  arms  and  packed  a  piece  of  bleeding  flesh  into  the  top 


194  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

of  his  car  with  infinite  care  lest  he  should  give  a  jolt  to  broken 
bones. 

One  of  the  men  behind  us  had  his  leg  smashed  in  two  places. 
As  we  went  over  the  roads  with  great  stones  and  the  rubbish 
of  ruined  houses  he  cried  out  again  and  again  in  a  voice  of 
anguish : 

"  Pas  si  vite !     Pour  I'amour  de  Dieu.  .  .  .  Pas  si  vlte !  " 

Not  so  quickly.  But  when  he  came  out  of  the  burned 
streets  towards  the  level  crossing  of  the  railway  it  seemed 
best  to  go  quickly.  Shells  were  falling  in  the  fields  quite  close 
to  us.  One  of  them  dug  a  deep  hole  in  the  road  twenty  yards 
ahead  of  us.  Another  burst  close  behind.  Instinctively  I 
yearned  for  speed.  I  wanted  to  rush  along  that  road  and  get 
beyond  the  range  of  fire.  But  the  driver  in  the  blue  jersey, 
hearing  that  awful  cry  behind  him,  slowed  down  and  crawled 
along. 

"  Poor  devil,"  he  said.  "  I  can  imagine  what  it  feels  like 
when  two  bits  of  broken  bone  get  rubbing  together.  Every 
jolt  and  jar  must  give  him  hell." 

He  went  slower  still,  at  a  funeral  pace,  and  looking  back 
into  the  ambulance  said  "  Ca  y  est,  mon  vieux.  .  .  .  Bon 
courage ! " 

Afterwards,  this  very  gallant  gentleman  was  wounded 
himself,  and  lay  in  one  of  the  ambulances  which  he  had  often 
led  towards  adventure,  with  a  jagged  piece  of  steel  in  his  leg, 
and  two  bones  rasping  together  at  every  jolt.  But  when  he 
was  lifted  up,  he  stifled  a  groan  and  gave  his  old  cheerful  cry 
of  "Ca  y  est!" 

During  the  two  days  that  followed  the  convent  at  Fumes 
was  overcrowded  with  the  wounded.  All  day  long  and  late 
into  the  night  they  were  brought  back  by  the  Belgian  ambu- 
lances from  the  zone  of  fire,  and  hardly  an  hour  passed 
without  a  bang  at  the  great  wooden  gates  in  the  courtyard 
which  were  flung  open  to  let  in  another  tide  of  human  wreck- 
age. 

The  Belgians  were  still  holding  their  last  remaining  ground 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      195 

—  it  did  not  amount  to  more  than  a  few  fields  and  villages 
between  the  French  frontier  and  Dixmude  —  with  a  gallant 
resistance  which  belongs  without  question  to  the  heroic  things 
of  history.  During  these  late  days  in  October,  still  fighting 
almost  alone,  for  there  were  no  British  soldiers  to  help  them 
and  only  a  few  French  batteries,  with  two  regiments  of  French 
marines  they  regained  some  of  their  soil  and  beat  back  the 
enemy  from  positions  to  which  it  had  advanced.  In  spite  of 
the  most  formidable  attacks  made  by  the  German  troops  along 
the  coastline  between  Wcstende  and  Ostende,  and  in  a  crescent 
sweeping  round  Dixmude  for  about  thirty  kilometers,  those 
Belgian  soldiers,  tired  out  by  months  of  fighting,  with  deci- 
mated regiments  and  with  but  the  poor  remnant  of  a  disor- 
ganized army,  not  only  stood  firm,  but  inflicted  heavy  losses 
upon  the  enemy,  and  captured  four  hundred  prisoners.  For 
a  few  hours  the  Germans  succeeded  in  crossing  the  Yser, 
threatening  a  general  advance  upon  the  Belgian  line.  Before 
Nieuport  their  trenches  were  only  fifty  meters  away  from 
those  of  the  Belgians,  and  on  the  night  of  October  22  they 
charged  eight  times  with  the  bayonet  in  order  to  force  their 
way  through. 

Each  assault  failed  against  the  Belgian  infantry,  who 
stayed  in  their  trenches  in  spite  of  the  blood  that  eddied 
about  their  feet  and  the  corpses  that  lay  around  them.  Liv- 
ing and  dead  made  a  rampart  which  the  Germans  could  not 
break.  With  an  incessant  rattle  of  mitrailleuses  and  rifle 
fire,  the  Belgians  mowed  down  the  German  troops  as  they  ad- 
vanced in  solid  ranks,  so  that  on  each  of  those  eight  times  the 
enemy's  attack  was  broken  and  destroyed.  They  fell  like 
the  leaves  which  were  then  being  scattered  by  the  autumn 
wind  and  their  bodies  were  strewn  between  the  trenches. 
Some  of  them  were  the  bodies  of  very  young  men  —  poor  bo^'s 
of  sixteen  and  seventeen  from  German  high  schools  and  uni- 
versities, who  were  the  sons  of  noble  and  well-to-do  families, 
had  been  accepted  as  volunteers  by  Prussian  war-lords  ruth- 
less of  human  life  in  their  desperate  gamble  with  fate.     Some 


196  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

of  these  lads  were  brought  to  the  hospitals  in  Furnes,  badly 
wounded.  One  of  them  carried  into  the  convent  courtyard 
smiled  as  he  lay  on  his  stretcher  and  spoke  imperfect  French 
very  politely  to  English  women  who  bent  over  him,  piteous 
as  girls  who  see  a  wounded  bird.  He  seemed  glad  to  be  let 
off  so  hghtly  with  only  a  wound  in  his  foot  which  would  make 
him  limp  for  life ;  very  glad  to  be  out  of  all  the  horror  of  those 
trenches  on  the  German  side  of  the  Yser.  One  could  hardly 
call  this  boy  an  "enemy."  He  was  just  a  poor  innocent 
caught  up  by  a  devilish  power,  and  dropped  when  of  no  more 
use  as  an  instrument  of  death.  The  pity  that  stirs  one  in  the 
presence  of  one  of  these  broken  creatures  does  not  come  to 
one  on  the  field  of  battle,  where  there  is  no  single  individu- 
ahty,  but  only  a  grim  conflict  of  unseen  powers,  as  inhuman 
as  thunderbolts,  or  as  the  destructive  terror  of  the  old 
nature  gods.  The  enemy,  then,  fills  one  with  a  hatred  based 
on  fear.  One  rejoices  to  see  a  shell  burst  over  his  batteries 
and  is  glad  at  the  thought  of  the  death  that  came  to  him  of 
that  puff  of  smoke.  But  I  found  that  no  such  animosity 
stirs  one  in  the  presence  of  the  individual  enemy  or  among 
crowds  of  their  prisoners.  One  only  wonders  at  the  fright- 
fulness  of  the  crime  which  makes  men  kill  each  other  without 
a  purpose  of  their  own,  but  at  the  dictate  of  powers  far 
removed  from  their  own  knowledge  and  interests  in  hfe. 

That  courtyard  in  the  convent  at  Furnes  will  always  haunt 
my  mind  as  the  scene  of  a  grim  drama.  Sometimes,  standing 
there  alone,  in  the  darkness,  by  the  side  of  an  ambulance,  I 
used  to  look  up  at  the  stars  and  wonder  what  God  might  think 
of  all  this  work  if  there  were  any  truth  in  old  faiths.  A 
pretty  mess,  we  mortals  made  of  life !  I  might  almost  have 
laughed  at  the  irony  of  it  all,  except  that  my  laughter  would 
have  choked  in  my  throat  and  turned  me  sick.  They  were 
beasts,  and  worse  than  beasts,  to  maim  and  mutilate  each 
other  like  this,  having  no  real  hatred  in  their  hearts  for  each 
other,  but  only  a  stupid  perplexity  that  they  should  be  hurled 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      197 

in  masses  against  each  other's  ranks,  to  slash  and  shoot  and 
burn  in  obedience  to  orders  by  people  who  were  their  greatest 
enemies  —  Ministers  of  State,  with  cold  and  calculating 
brains,  high  inhuman  officers  who  studied  battlefields  as 
greater  chessboards.  So  I  —  a  little  black  ant  in  a  shadow 
on  the  earth  under  the  eternal  sky  —  used  to  think  like  this, 
and  to  stop  thinking  these  silly  irritating  thoughts  turned  to 
the  job  in  hand,  which  generally  was  to  take  up  one  end  of  a 
stretcher  laden  with  a  bloody  man,  or  to  give  my  shoulder  to  a 
tall  soldier  who  leaned  upon  it  and  stumbled  fonvard  to  an 
open  door  which  led  to  the  operating-table  and  an  empty  bed, 
where  he  might  die  if  his  luck  were  out. 

The  courtyard  was  always  full  of  stir  and  bustle  in  the 
hours  when  the  ambulance  convoys  came  in  with  their  cargoes 
of  men  rescued  from  the  firing  zone.  The  headlights  of  the 
cars  thrust  shafts  of  blinding  light  into  the  darkness  as  they 
steered  round  in  the  steep  and  narrow  road  Avhich  led  to  the 
convent  gates  between  two  high  thick  walls,  and  then,  with  a 
grinding  and  panting,  came  inside  to  halt  beside  cars  already 
at  a  standstill.  The  cockney  voices  of  the  chauffeurs  called 
to  each  other. 

"  Blast  yer.  Bill  ,  .  .  Carn't  yer  give  a  bit  of  elber  room? 
Gord  almighty,  'ow  d'yer  think  I  can  get  in  there.?  " 

Women  came  out  into  the  yard,  their  white  caps  touched 
by  the  light  of  their  lanterns,  and  women's  voices  spoke 
quietly. 

"  Have  you  got  many  this  time.?  "  .  .  .  "  We  can  hardly 
find  an  inch  of  room."  ..."  It's  awful  having  to  use 
stretchers  for  beds.  .  .  ."  "  There  were  six  deaths  this  aft- 
ernoon." 

Then  would  follow  a  silence  or  a  whispering  of  stretcher- 
bearers,  telling  their  adventures  to  a  girl  in  khaki  breeches, 
standing  with  one  hand  in  her  jacket  pocket,  and  with  the 
little  flare  of  a  cigarette  glowing  upon  her  cheek  and  hair. 

"  All  safe.?  .  .  .  That  was  luck!  " 


198  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

"  0  mon  Dieu !     0,  ere  nom !     0 !     O !  " 

It  was  a  man's  voice  crying  in  agony,  rising  to  a  shudder- 
ing, blood-curdling  scream. 

"  O  Jesus !     O !     O !  " 

One  could  not  deafen  one's  ears  against  that  note  of  human 
agony.  It  pierced  into  one's  soul.  One  could  only  stand 
gripping  one's  hands  in  this  torture  chamber,  with  darkness 
between  high  walls,  and  with  shadows  making  awful  noises 
out  of  the  gulfs  of  blackness. 

The  cries  of  the  wounded  men  died  down  and  whimpered 
out  into  a  dull  faint  moaning. 

A  laugh  came  chuckling  behind  an  ambulance. 

"Hot?  ...  I  should  think  it  was!  But  we  picked  the 
men  up  and  crossed  the  bridge  all  right.  .  .  .  The  shells  were 
falling  on  every  side  of  us.  ...  I  was  pretty  scared,  you 
bet.  .  .  .  It's  a  bit  too  thick,  you  know !  " 

Silence  again.  Then  a  voice  speaking  quietly  across  the 
yard: 

"  Any  one  to  lend  a  hand.''  There's  a  body  to  be  carried 
out." 

I  helped  to  carry  out  the  body,  as  every  one  helped  to  do 
any  small  work  if  he  had  his  hands  free  at  the  moment.  It 
was  the  saving  of  one's  sanity  and  self-respect.  Yet  to  me, 
more  sensitive  perhaps  than  it  is  good  to  be,  it  was  a  moral 
test  almost  greater  than  my  strength  of  will  to  enter  that 
large  room  where  the  wounded  lay,  and  to  approach  a  dead 
man  through  a  lane  of  dying.  (So  many  of  them  died  after 
a  night  in  our  guest-house.  Not  all  the  skill  of  surgeons 
could  patch  up  some  of  those  bodies,  torn  open  with  ghastly 
wounds  from  German  shells.)  The  smell  of  wet  and  muddy 
clothes,  coagulated  blood  and  gangrened  limbs,  of  iodine  and 
chloroform,  sickness  and  sweat  of  agony,  made  a  stench  which 
struck  one's  senses  with  a  foul  blow.  I  used  to  try  to  close 
my  nostrils  to  it,  holding  my  breath  lest  I  should  vomit.  I 
used  to  try  to  keep  my  eyes  upon  the  ground,  to  avoid  the 
sight  of  those  smashed  faces,  and  blinded  eyes,  and  tattered 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      199 

bodies,  lying  each  side  of  me  in  the  hospital  cots,  or  in  the 
stretchers  set  upon  the  floor  between  them.  I  tried  to  shut 
my  eyes  to  the  sounds  in  this  room,  the  hideous  snuffle  of  men 
drawing  their  last  breaths,  the  long-drawn  moans  of  men  in 
devilish  pain,  the  ravings  of  fever-stricken  men  crying  like 
little  children  — "  Maman  !  O  :Maman !  " —  or  repeating  over 
and  over  again  some  angry  protest  against  a  distant  comrade. 
But  sights  and  sounds  and  smells  forced  themselves  upon 
one's  senses.  I  had  to  look  and  to  listen  and  to  breathe  in 
the  odor  of  death  and  corruption.  For  hours  afterwards  I 
would  be  haunted  with  the  death  face  of  some  young  man, 
lying  half-naked  on  his  bed  while  nurses  dressed  his  horrible 
wounds.  What  waste  of  men!  What  disfigurement  of  the 
beauty  that  belongs  to  youth!  Bearded  soldier  faces  lay 
here  in  a  tranquillity  that  told  of  coming  death.  They  had 
been  such  strong  and  sturdy  men,  tilling  their  Flemish  fields, 
and  living  with  a  quiet  faith  in  their  hearts.  Now  they  were 
dying  before  their  time,  conscious,  some  of  them,  that  death 
was  near,  so  that  weak  tears  dropped  upon  their  beards,  and 
in  their  eyes  was  a  great  fear  and  anguish. 

"  Je  ne  veux  pas  mourir !  "  said  one  of  them.  "  O  ma 
pauvre  femme !  .  .   .  Je  ne  veux  pas  mourir !  " 

He  did  not  wish  to  die  .  .  .  but  in  the  morning  he  was 
dead. 

The  corpse  that  I  had  to  carry  out  lay  pinned  up  in  a 
sheet.  The  work  had  been  very  neatly  done  by  the  nurse. 
She  whispered  to  me  as  I  stood  on  one  side  of  the  bed,  with  a 
friend  on  the  other  side : 

"  Be  careful.  ...  He  might  fall  in  half." 

I  thought  over  these  words  as  I  put  my  hands  under  the 
warm  body  and  helped  to  lift  its  weight  on  to  the  stretcher. 
Yes,  some  of  the  shell  wounds  were  rather  big.  One  could 
hardly  sew  a  man  together  again  with  bits  of  cotton.  .  .  . 
It  was  only  afterwards,  when  I  had  helped  to  put  the  stretcher 
in  a  separate  room  on  the  other  side  of  the  courtyard,  that  a 
curious  trembling  took  possession  of  me  for  a  moment.  .  .  . 


200  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

The  horror  of  it  all !  .  .  .  Were  the  virtues  which  were  sup- 
posed to  come  from  war,  "  the  binding  strength  of  nations," 
"  the  cleansing  of  corruption,"  all  the  falsities  of  men  who 
make  excuses  for  this  monstrous  crime,  worth  the  price  that 
was  being  paid  in  pain  and  tears  and  death?  It  is  only  the 
people  who  sit  at  home  who  write  these  things.  When  one 
is  in  the  midst  of  war  false  heroics  arc  blown  out  of  one's  soul 
by  all  its  din  and  tumult  of  human  agony.  One  learns  that 
courage  itself  exists,  in  most  cases,  as  the  pride  in  the  heart 
of  men  very  much  afraid  —  a  pride  which  makes  them  hide 
their  fear.  They  do  not  become  more  virtuous  in  war,  but 
onlj'-  reveal  the  virtue  that  is  in  them.  The  most  heroic 
courage  which  came  into  the  courtyard  at  Furnes  was  not  that 
of  the  stretcher-bearers  who  went  out  under  fire,  but  that  of 
the  doctors  and  nurses  Avho  tended  the  wounded,  toiling  cease- 
lessly in  the  muck  of  blood,  amidst  all  those  sights  and 
sounds.  My  spirit  bowed  before  them  as  I  watched  them  at 
work.  I  was  proud  if  I  could  carry  soup  to  any  of  them 
when  they  came  into  the  refectory  for  a  hurried  meal,  or  if  I 
could  wash  a  plate  clean  so  that  they  might  fill  it  with  a  piece 
of  meat  from  the  kitchen  stew.  I  would  have  cleaned  their 
boots  for  them  if  it  had  been  worth  while  cleaning  boots  to 
tramp  the  filthy  yard. 

"  It's  not  surgery ! "  said  one  of  the  young  surgeons, 
coming  out  of  the  operating-theater  and  washing  his  hands 
at  the  kitchen  sink ;  "  it's  butchery !  " 

He  told  me  that  he  had  never  seen  such  wounds  or  imagmed 
them,  and  as  for  the  conditions  in  which  he  worked  —  he 
raised  his  hands  and  laughed  at  the  awfulness  of  them,  be- 
cause it  is  best  to  laugh  when  there  is  no  remedy.  There 
was  a  scarcity  of  dressings,  of  instruments,  of  sterilizers. 
The  place  was  so  crowded  that  there  was  hardly  room  to  turn, 
and  wounded  men  poured  in  so  fast  that  it  was  nothing  but 
hacking  and  sewing. 

"  I'm  used  to  blood,"  said  the  young  surgeon.  "  It's 
some  years  now  since  I  was  put  through  my  first  ordeal,  of 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      201 

dissecting  dead  bodies  and  then  handling  living  tissue.  You 
know  how  it's  done  —  by  gradual  stages  until  a  student  no 
longer  wants  to  faint  at  the  sight  of  raw  flesh,  but  regards  it 
as  so  much  material  for  scientific  work.  But  this !  " —  he 
looked  towards  the  room  into  which  the  wounded  came  — 
"  It's  getting  on  my  nerves  a  little.  It's  the  sense  of  wanton 
destruction  that  makes  one  loathe  it,  the  utter  senselessness 
of  it  all,  the  waste  of  such  good  stuff.  War  is  a  hellish  game 
.  .  .  and  I'm  so  sorry  for  all  the  poor  Belgians  who  are  get- 
ting it  in  the  neck.     Tliey  didn't  ask  for  it !  " 

The  wooden  gates  opened  to  let  in  another  ambulance  full 
of  Belgian  wounded,  and  the  young  surgeon  nodded  to  me 
with  a  smile. 

"  Another  little  lot !  I  must  get  back  into  the  slaughter- 
house.    So  long!  " 

I  helped  out  one  of  the  "  sitting-up  "  cases  —  a  young 
man  with  a  wound  in  his  chest,  who  put  his  arm  about  my 
neck  and  said  "  Merci !  Mcrci !  "  with  a  fine  courtesy,  until 
suddenly  he  went  limp,  so  that  I  had  to  hold  him  with  all  my 
strength,  while  he  vomited  blood  down  my  coat.  I  had  to 
get  help  to  carry  him  indoors. 

And  yet  there  was  laughter  in  the  convent  where  so  many 
men  lay  wounded.  It  was  only  by  gaiety  and  the  quick  cap- 
ture of  any  jest  that  those  doctors  and  nurses  and  ambulance 
girls  could  keep  their  nerves  steady.  So  in  the  refectory, 
when  they  sat  down  for  a  meal,  there  was  an  endless  fire  of 
raillery,  and  the  blue-eyed  boy  with  the  blond  hair  used  to 
crow  like  Peter  Pan  and  speak  a  wonderful  mixture  of  French 
and  English,  and  play  the  jester  gallantly.  There  would  be 
processions  of  plate  bearers  to  the  kitchen  next  dooi',  where  a 
splendid  Englishwoman  —  one  of  those  fine  square-faced, 
brown-eyed,  cheerful  souls  —  had  been  toiling  all  day  in  the 
heat  of  oven  and  stoves  to  cook  enough  food  for  fifty-five 
hungry  people  who  could  not  wait  for  their  meals.  There 
was  a  scramble  between  two  doctors  for  the  last  potatoes,  and 
a  duel  between  one  of  them  and  myself  in  the  slicing  up  of 


202  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

roast  beef  or  boiled  mutton,  and  amorous  advances  to  the  lady 
cook  for  a  tit-bit  in  the  baking-pan.  There  never  was  such 
a  kitchen,  and  a  County  Council  inspector  would  have  re- 
ported on  it  in  lurid  terms.  The  sink  was  used  as  a  wash- 
place  by  surgeons,  chauffeurs,  and  stretcher-bearers.  Nurses 
would  come  through  with  bloody  rags  from  the  ward,  which 
was  only  an  open  door  away.  Lightly  wounded  men,  covered 
with  Yser  mud,  would  sit  at  a  side  table,  eating  the  remnants 
of  other  people's  meals.  Above  the  sizzling  sausages  and  the 
clatter  of  plates  one  could  hear  the  moaning  of  the  wounded 
and  the  incessant  monologue  of  the  fever-stricken.  And  yet 
it  is  curious  I  look  back  upon  that  convent  kitchen  as  a  place 
of  gaiety,  holding  many  memories  of  comradeship,  and  as  a 
little  sanctuary  from  the  misery  of  war.  I  was  a  scullion  in 
it,  at  odd  hours  of  the  day  and  night  when  I  was  not  follow- 
ing the  ambulance  wagons  to  the  field,  or  helping  to  clean  the 
courtyard,  or  doing  queer  little  jobs  which  some  one  had 
to  do. 

"  I  want  you  to  dig  a  hole  and  help  me  to  bury  an  arm  " 
said  one  of  the  nurses.     "  Do  you  mind.?  " 

I  spent  another  hour  helping  a  lady  to  hang  up  blankets, 
not  very  well  washed,  because  they  were  still  stained  with 
blood,  and  not  very  sanitary,  because  the  line  was  above  a 
pile  of  straw  upon  which  men  had  died.  There  were  many 
rubbish  heaps  in  the  courtyard  near  which  it  was  not  wise  to 
linger,  and  always  propped  against  the  walls  were  stretchers 
soppy  with  blood,  or  with  great  dark  stains  upon  them  where 
blood  had  dried.  It  was  like  the  courtyard  of  a  shambles, 
this  old  convent  enclosure,  and  indeed  it  was  exactly  that, 
except  that  the  animals  were  not  killed  outright,  but  lingered 
in  their  pain. 

Early  each  morning  the  ambulances  started  on  their  way 
to  the  zone  of  fire,  where  always  one  might  go  gleaning  in  the 
harvest  fields  of  Awar.  The  direction  was  given  us,  with  the 
password  of  the  day,  by  young  de  Broqueville,  who  received 
the  latest  reports  from  the  Belgian  Headquarters  Staff.     As 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      203 

a  rule  there  was  not  much  choice.  It  lay  somewhere  between 
the  roads  to  Nieuport  on  the  coast,  and  inland,  to  Pervyse, 
Dixmude,  St.  Georges,  or  Ramscapellc  where  the  Belgian  and 
German  lines  formed  a  crescent  down  to  Ypres. 

The  center  of  that  half-circle  girdled  by  the  guns  was  an 
astounding  and  terrible  panorama,  traced  in  its  outline  by 
the  black  fumes  of  shell-fire  above  the  stabbing  flashes  of  the 
batteries.  Over  Nieuport  there  was  a  canopy  of  smoke, 
intensely  black,  but  broken  every  moment  by  blue  glares  of 
light  as  a  shell  burst  and  rent  the  blackness.  Villages  were 
burning  on  many  points  of  the  crescent,  some  of  them  smol- 
dering drowsily,  others  blazing  fiercely  like  beacon  fires. 

Dixmude  was  still  alight  at  either  end,  but  the  fires  seemed 
to  have  burned  down  at  its  center.  Beyond,  on  the  other 
horn  of  the  crescent,  were  five  flaming  torches,  which  marked 
what  were  once  the  neat  little  villages  of  a  happy  Belgium. 
I  was  in  the  center  of  this  battleground,  and  the  roads  about 
me  had  been  churned  up  by  shells  and  strewn  with  shrapnel 
bullets.  Close  to  me  in  a  field,  under  the  cover  of  a  little 
wood,  were  some  Belgian  batteries.  They  were  firing  with  a 
machine-like  regularity,  and  every  minute  came  the  heavy 
bark  of  the  gun,  followed  by  the  swish  of  the  shell,  as  it  flew 
in  a  high  arc  and  then  smashed  over  the  German  lines.  It 
was  curious  to  calculate  the  length  of  time  between  the  flash 
and  the  explosion.  Further  away  some  naval  guns  belonging 
to  the  French  marines  were  getting  the  range  of  the  enemy's 
positions,  and  they  gave  a  new  note  of  music  to  this  infernal 
orchestra.  It  was  a  deep,  sullen  crash,  with  a  tremendous 
menace  in  its  tone.  The  enemy's  shells  were  bursting  inces- 
santly, and  at  very  close  range,  so  that  at  times  they  seemed 
only  a  few  yards  away.  The  Germans  had  many  great  how- 
itzers, and  the  burst  of  the  shell  was  followed  by  enormous 
clouds  which  hung  heavily  in  the  air  for  ten  minutes  or  more. 
It  was  these  shells  which  dug  great  holes  in  the  ground  deep 
enough  for  a  cart  to  be  buried.  Their  moral  efi"ect  was 
awful,  and  one's  soul  was  a  shuddering  coward  before  them. 


204.  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

The  roads  were  encumbered  with  long  convoys  of  pro- 
visions for  the  troops,  ambulances,  Red  Cross  motor-cars, 
gun-wagons,  and  farm  carts.  Two  regiments  of  Belgian 
cavalry  —  the  chasseurs  a  clieval  —  were  dismounted  and 
bivouacked  with  their  horses  drawn  up  in  single  line  along 
the  roadway  for  half  a  mile  or  more.  The  men  were  splendid 
fellows,  hardened  by  the  long  campaign,  and  amazingly  care- 
less of  shells.  They  wore  a  variety  of  uniforms,  for  they 
were  but  the  gathered  remnants  of  the  Belgian  cavalry  di- 
vision which  had  fought  from  the  beginning  of  the  war.  I 
was  surprised  to  see  their  horses  in  such  good  condition,  in 
spite  of  a  long  ordeal  which  had  so  steadied  their  nerves  that 
they  paid  not  the  slightest  heed  to  the  turmoil  of  the  guns. 

Near  the  line  of  battle,  through  outlying  villages  and  past 
broken  farms,  companies  of  Belgian  infantry  were  huddled 
under  cover  out  of  the  way  of  shrapnel  bullets  if  they  could 
get  the  shelter  of  a  doorway  or  the  safer  side  of  a  brick  wall. 
I  stared  into  their  faces  and  saw  how  dead  they  looked.  It 
seemed  as  if  their  vital  spark  had  already  been  put  out  by  the 
storm  of  battle.  Their  eyes  were  sunken  and  quite  expres- 
sionless. For  week  after  week,  night  after  night,  they  had 
been  exposed  to  shell-fire,  and  something  had  died  within 
them  —  perhaps  the  desire  to  live.  Every  now  and  then 
some  of  them  would  duck  their  heads  as  a  shell  burst  within 
fifty  or  a  hundred  yards  of  them,  and  I  saw  then  that  fear 
could  still  live  in  the  hearts  of  men  who  had  become  accus- 
tomed to  the  constant  chance  of  death.  For  fear  exists  with 
the  highest  valor,  and  its  psychological  effect  is  not  unknown 
to  heroes  who  have  the  courage  to  confess  the  truth. 

"  If  a  man  says  he  is  not  afraid  of  shell-fire,"  said  one  of 
the  bravest  men  I  have  ever  met  —  and  at  that  moment  we 
were  watching  how  the  enemy's  shrapnel  was  plowing  up  the 
earth  on  either  side  of  the  road  on  which  we  stood  — "  he  is  a 
liar !  "  There  are  very  few  men  in  this  war  who  make  any 
such  pretense.     On  the  contrary,  most  of  the  French,  Bel- 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      205 

gian,  and  English  soldiers  with  whom  I  have  had  wayside  con- 
versations since  the  war  began,  find  a  kind  of  painful  pleasure 
in  the  candid  confession  of  their  fears. 

"  It  is  now  three  days  since  I  have  been  frightened,"  said 
a  young  English  officer,  who,  I  fancy,  was  never  scared  in  his 
life  before  he  came  out  to  see  these  battlefields  of  terror. 

"  I  was  paralyzed  with  a  cold  and  horrible  fear  when  I  was 
ordered  to  advance  with  my  men  over  open  ground  under  the 
enemy's  shrapnel,"  said  a  French  officer  with  the  steady 
brown  eyes  of  a  man  who  in  ordinary  tests  of  courage  would 
smile  at  the  risk  of  death. 

But  this  shell-fire  is  not  an  ordinary  test  of  courage. 
Courage  is  annihilated  in  the  face  of  it.  Something  else  takes 
its  place  —  a  philosophy  of  fatalism,  sometimes  an  utter 
boredom  with  the  way  in  which  death  plays  the  fool  with 
men,  threatening  but  failing  to  kill ;  in  most  cases  a  strange 
extinction  of  all  emotions  and  sensations,  so  that  men  who 
have  been  long  under  shell-fire  have  a  peculiar  rigidity  of  the 
nervous  system,  as  if  something  has  been  killed  inside  them, 
though  outwardly  they  are  still  alive  and  untouched. 

The  old  style  of  courage,  when  man  had  pride  and  confi- 
dence in  his  own  strength  and  valor  against  other  men,  when 
he  was  on  an  equality  with  his  enemy  in  arms  and  intelligence, 
has  almost  gone.  It  has  quite  gone  when  he  is  called  upon  to 
advance  or  hold  the  ground  in  face  of  the  enemy's  artillery. 
For  all  human  qualities  are  of  no  avail  against  those  death- 
machines.  What  are  quickness  of  wit,  the  strength  of  a 
man's  right  arm,  the  heroic  fiber  of  his  heart,  his  cunning  in 
warfare,  when  he  is  opposed  by  an  enemy's  batteries  which 
belch  out  bursting  shells  with  frightful  precision  and  regular- 
ity .-^  What  is  the  most  courageous  man  to  do  in  such  an 
hour?  Can  he  stand  erect  and  fearless  under  a  sky  which  is 
raining  down  jagged  pieces  of  steel?  Can  he  adopt  the  pose 
of  an  Adelphi  hero,  with  a  scornful  smile  on  his  lips,  when  a 
yard  away  from  him  a  hole  large  enough  to  bury  a  taxicab 


206  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

is  torn  out  of  the  earth,  and  when  the  building  against  which 
he  has  been  standing  is  suddenly  knocked  into  a  ridiculous 
ruin? 

It  is  impossible  to  exaggerate  the  monstrous  horror  of 
the  shell-fire,  as  I  knew  when  I  stood  in  the  midst  of  it,  watch- 
ing its  effect  upon  the  men  around  me,  and  analyzing  my  own 
psychological  sensations  with  a  morbid  interest.  I  was  very 
much  afraid  —  day  after  day  I  faced  that  music  and  hated 
it  —  but  there  were  all  sorts  of  other  sensations  besides  fear 
which  worked  a  change  in  me.  I  was  conscious  of  great 
physical  discomfort  which  reacted  upon  my  brain.  The 
noises  were  even  more  distressing  to  me  than  the  risk  of  death. 
It  was  terrifying  in  its  tumult.  The  German  batteries  were 
hard  at  work  round  Nieuport,  Dixmude,  Pervyse,  and  other 
towns  and  villages,  forming  a  crescent,  with  its  left  curve 
sweeping  away  from  the  coast.  One  could  see  the  stabbing 
flashes  from  some  of  the  enemy's  guns  and  a  loud  and  unceas- 
ing roar  came  from  them  with  regular  rolls  of  thunderous 
noise  interrupted  by  sudden  and  terrific  shocks,  which  shat- 
tered into  one's  brain  and  shook  one's  body  with  a  kind  of 
disintegrating  tumult.  High  above  this  deep-toned  concus- 
sion came  the  cry  of  the  shells  —  that  long  carrying  buzz  — 
like  a  monstrous,  angry  bee  rushing  away  from  a  burning 
hive  —  which  rises  into  a  shrill  singing  note  before  ending 
and  bursting  into  the  final  boom  which  scatters  death.  But 
more  awful  was  the  noise  of  our  own  guns.  At  Nieuport  I 
stood  only  a  few  hundred  yards  away  from  the  warships  lying 
off  the  coast.  Each  shell  which  they  sent  across  the  dunes 
was  like  one  of  Jove's  thunderbolts,  and  made  one's  body  and 
soul  quake  with  the  agony  of  its  noise.  The  vibration  was 
so  great  that  it  made  my  skull  ache  as  though  it  had  been 
hammered.  Long  afterwards  I  found  myself  trembling  with 
those  waves  of  vibrating  sounds.  Worse  still,  because 
sharper  and  more  piercingly  staccato,  was  my  experience 
close  to  a  battery  of  French  cent-vvngt.  Each  shell  was  fired 
with  a  hard  metallic  crack,  which  seemed  to  knock  a  hole  into 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      207 

my  ear-drums.  I  suffered  intolerably  from  the  noise,  yet  — 
so  easy  it  is  to  laugh  in  the  midst  of  pain  —  I  laughed  aloud 
when  a  friend  of  mine,  passing  the  battery  in  his  motor-car, 
raised  his  hand  to  one  of  the  gunners,  and  said,  "  Un  moment, 
s'il  vous  plait !  "  It  was  like  asking  Jove  to  stop  his  thunder- 
bolts. 

Some  people  get  accustomed  to  the  noise,  but  others 
never.  Every  time  a  battery  fired  simultaneously  one  of 
the  men  who  were  with  me,  a  hard,  tough  type  of  mechanic, 
shrank  and  ducked  his  head  with  an  expression  of  agonized 
horror.  He  confessed  to  me  that  it  "  knocked  his  nerves 
to  pieces."  Three  such  men  out  of  six  or  seven  had  to  be 
invalided  home  in  one  week.  One  of  them  had  a  crise  de 
nerfs,  which  nearly  killed  him.  Yet  it  was  not  fear  which 
was  the  matter  with  them.  Intellectually  they  were  brave 
men  and  coerced  themselves  into  joining  many  perilous 
adventures.  It  was  the  intolerable  strain  upon  the  nervous 
system  that  made  wrecks  of  them.  Some  men  are  attacked 
with  a  kind  of  madness  in  the  presence  of  shells.  It  is  what 
a  French  friend  of  mine  called  la  folie  des  obtis.  It  is  a  kind 
of  spiritual  exultation  which  makes  them  lose  self-con- 
sciousness and  to  be  caught  up,  as  it  were,  in  the  delirium 
of  those  crashing,  screaming  things.  In  the  hottest  quarter 
of  an  hour  in  Dixmude  one  of  my  friends  paced  about  aim- 
lessly with  a  dreamy  look  in  his  eyes.  I  am  sure  he  had  not 
the  slightest  idea  where  he  was  or  what  he  was  doing.  I  be- 
lieve he  was  "  outside  himself,"  to  use  a  good  old-fashioned 
phrase.  And  at  Antwerp,  when  a  convoy  of  British  ambu- 
lances escaped  with  their  wounded  through  a  storm  of  shells, 
one  man  who  had  shown  a  strange  hankering  for  the  heart 
of  the  inferno,  stepped  off  his  car,  and  said :  "  I  must  go 
back,  I  must  go  back !  Those  shells  call  to  me."  He  went 
back  and  has  never  been  heard  of  again. 

Greater  than  one's  fear,  more  overmastering  in  one's  in- 
terest, is  this  shell-fire.  It  is  frightfully  interesting  to  watch 
the  shrapnel  bursting  near  bodies  of  troops,  to  see  the  shells 


208  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

kicking  up  the  earth,  now  in  this  direction  and  now  in  that ;  to 
study  a  great  building  gradually  losing  its  shape  and  falling 
into  ruins ;  to  see  how  death  takes  its  toll  in  an  indiscriminate 
way  —  smashing  a  human  being  into  pulp  a  few  yards  away 
and  leaving  oneself  alive,  or  scattering  a  roadway  with  bits 
of  raw  flesh  which  a  moment  ago  was  a  team  of  horses,  or 
whipping  the  stones  about  a  farmhouse  with  shrapnel  bullets 
which  spit  about  the  crouching  figures  of  soldiers  who  stare 
at  these  pellets  out  of  sunken  eyes.  One's  interest  holds  one 
in  the  firing  zone  with  a  grip  from  which  one's  intelligence 
cannot  escape  whatever  may  be  one's  cowardice.  It  is  the 
most  satisfying  thrill  of  horror  in  the  world.  How  foolish 
this  death  is !  How  it  picks  and  chooses,  taking  a  man  here 
and  leaving  a  man  there  by  just  a  hair's  breadth  of  difference. 
It  is  like  looking  into  hell  and  watching  the  fury  of  super- 
natural forces  at  play  with  human  bodies,  tearing  them  to 
pieces  with  great  splinters  of  steel  and  burning  them  in  the 
furnace-fires  of  shell-stricken  towns,  and  in  a  devilish  way 
obliterating  the  image  of  humanity  in  a  welter  of  blood. 
There  is  a  beauty  in  it  too,  for  the  sestheticism  of  a  Nero. 
Beautiful  and  terrible  were  the  fires  of  those  Belgian  towns 
which  I  watched  under  a  star-strewn  sky.  There  was  a 
pure  golden  glow,  as  of  liquid  metal,  beneath  the  smoke 
columns  and  the  leaping  tongues  of  flame.  And  many  colors 
were  used  to  paint  this  picture  of  war,  for  the  enemy  used 
shells  with  different  colored  fumes,  by  which  I  was  told  they 
studied  the  effect  of  their  fire.  Most  vivid  is  the  ordinary 
shrapnel,  which  tears  a  rent  through  the  black  volumes  of 
smoke  rolling  over  a  smoldering  town  with  a  luminous  sphere 
of  electric  blue.  Then  from  the  heavier  guns  come  dense 
puff-balls  of  tawny  orange,  violet,  and  heliotrope,  followed 
by  fleecy  little  cumuli  of  purest  white.  One's  mind  is  ab- 
sorbed in  this  pageant  of  shell-fire,  and  with  a  curious  in- 
tentness,  with  that  rigidity  of  nervous  and  muscular  force 
which  I  have  described,  one  watches  the  zone  of  fire  sweeping 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      209 

nearer  to  oneself,  bursting  quite  close,  killing  people  not  very 
far  away. 

Men  who  have  been  in  the  trenches  under  heavy  shell-fire, 
sometimes  for  as  long  as  three  days,  come  out  of  their  tor- 
ment like  men  who  have  been  buried  alive.  They  have  the 
brownish,  ashen  color  of  death.  They  tremble  as  through 
anguish.  They  are  dazed  and  stupid  for  a  time.  But  they 
go  back.  That  is  the  marvel  of  it.  They  go  back  day  after 
day,  as  the  Belgians  went  day  after  day.  There  is  no  fun 
in  it,  no  sport,  none  of  that  heroic  adventure  which  used 
perhaps  —  Gods  know  —  to  belong  to  warfare  when  men  were 
matched  against  men,  and  not  against  unapproachable  ar- 
tillery. This  is  their  courage,  stronger  than  all  their  fear. 
There  is  something  in  us,  even  divine  pride  of  manhood,  a 
dogged  disregard  of  death,  though  it  comes  from  an  unseen 
enemy  out  of  a  smoke-wracked  sky,  like  the  thunderbolts 
of  the  gods,  which  makes  us  go  back,  though  one  knows  the 
terror  of  it.  For  honor's  sake  men  face  again  the  music  of 
that  infernal  orchestra,  and  listen  with  a  deadly  sickness  in 
their  hearts  to  the  song  of  the  shell  screaming  the  French 
word  for  kill,  which  is  tue!  tue! 

It  was  at  night  that  I  used  to  see  the  full  splendor  of  the 
war's  infernal  beauty.  After  a  long  day  in  the  fields  travel- 
ing back  in  the  repeated  journeys  to  the  station  of  Fortem, 
where  the  lightly  wounded  men  used  to  be  put  on  a  steam 
tramway  for  transport  to  the  Belgian  hospitals,  the  am- 
bulances would  gather  their  last  load  and  go  homeward  to 
Fumes.  It  was  quite  dark  then,  and  towards  nine  o'clock  the 
enemy's  artillery  would  slacken  fire,  only  the  heavy  guns 
sending  out  long-range  shots.  But  five  towns  or  more  were 
blazing  fiercely  in  the  girdle  of  fire,  and  the  sky  throbbed 
with  the  crimson  glare  of  their  furnaces,  and  tall  trees  to 
which  the  autumn  foliage  clung  would  be  touched  with  light, 
so  that  their  straight  trunks  along  a  distant  highway  stood 
like  ghostly  sentinels.     Now  and  again,  above,  one  of  the 


210  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

burning  towns  a  shell  would  burst  as  though  the  enemy  were 
not  content  with  their  fires  and  would  smash  them  into 
smaller  fuel. 

As  I  watched  the  flames,  I  knew  that  each  one  of  those 
poor  burning  towns  was  the  ruin  of  something  more  than 
bricks  and  mortar.  It  was  the  ruin  of  a  people's  ideals, 
fulfilled  throughout  centuries  of  quiet  progress  in  arts  and 
crafts.  It  was  the  shattering  of  all  those  things  for  which 
they  praised  God  in  their  churches  —  the  good  gifts  of  home- 
life,  the  security  of  the  family,  the  impregnable  stronghold, 
as  it  seemed,  of  prosperity  built  by  labor  and  thrift  now 
utterly  destroyed. 

I  motored  over  to  Nieuport-les-Bains,  the  seaside  resort 
of  the  town  of  Nieuport  itself,  which  is  a  little  way  from  the 
coast.  It  was  one  of  those  Belgian  watering-places  much 
beloved  by  the  Germans  before  their  guns  knocked  it  to  bit^ 
—  a  row  of  red-brick  villas  with  a  few  pretentious  hotels 
utterly  uncharacteristic  of  the  Flemish  style  of  architecture, 
lining  a  promenade  and  built  upon  the  edge  of  dreary  and 
monotonous  sand-dunes.  On  this  day  the  place  and  its 
neighborhood  were  utterly  and  terribly  desolate.  The  only 
human  beings  I  passed  on  my  car  were  two  seamen  of  the 
British  navy,  who  were  fixing  up  a  wireless  apparatus  on  the 
edge  of  the  sand.  They  stared  at  our  ambulances  curiously, 
and  one  of  them  gave  me  a  prolonged  and  strenuous  wink,  as 
though  to  say,  "  A  fine  old  game,  mate,  this  bloody  war !  " 
Beyond,  the  sea  was  very  calm,  like  liquid  lead,  and  a  slight 
haze  hung  over  it,  putting  a  gauzy  veil  about  a  line  of 
British  and  French  monitors  which  lay  close  to  the  coast. 
Not  a  soul  could  be  seen  along  the  promenade  of  Nieuport- 
les-Bains,  but  the  body  of  a  man  —  a  French  marine  — 
whose  soul  had  gone  in  flight  upon  the  great  adventure  of 
eternity,  lay  at  the  end  of  it  with  his  sightless  eyes  staring 
up  to  the  gray  sky.  Presently  I  was  surprised  to  see  an 
elderly  civilian  and  a  small  boy  come  out  of  one  of  the 
houses.     The   man  told  me  he  was   the  proprietor  of  the 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      211 

Grand  Hotel,  "  but,"  he  added,  with  a  gloomy  smile,  "  I 
have  no  guests  at  this  moment.  In  a  little  while,  perhaps 
my  hotel  will  have  gone  also."  He  pointed  to  a  deep  hole 
plowed  up  an  hour  ago  by  a  German  "  Jack  Johnson."  It 
was  deep  enough  to  bury  a  taxicab. 

For  some  time,  as  I  paced  up  and  down  the  promenade, 
there  was  no  answer  to  the  mighty  voices  of  the  naval  guns 
firing  from  some  British  warships  lying  along  the  coast. 
Nor  did  any  answer  come  for  some  time  to  a  French  battery 
snugly  placed  in  a  hollow  of  the  dunes,  screened  by  a  few 
trees.  I  listened  to  the  overwhelming  concussion  of  each 
shot  from  the  ships,  wondering  at  the  mighty  flight  of  the 
shell,  which  traveled  through  the  air  with  the  noise  of  an 
express  train  rushing  through  a  tunnel.  It  was  curious 
that  no  answer  came !  Surely  the  German  batteries  beyond 
the  river  would  reply  to  that  deadly  cannonade. 

I  had  not  long  to  wait  for  the  inevitable  response.  It 
came  with  a  shriek,  and  a  puff  of  bluish  smoke,  as  the  German 
shrapnel  burst  a  hundred  yards  from  where  I  stood.  It 
was  followed  by  several  shells  which  dropped  into  the  dunes, 
not  far  from  the  French  battery  of  cent-vingt.  Another 
knocked  off  the  gable  of  a  villa. 

I  had  been  pacing  up  and  down  under  the  shelter  of  a 
red-brick  wall  leading  into  the  courtyard  of  a  temporary 
hospital,  and  presently,  acting  upon  orders  from  Lieutenant 
de  Broqueville,  I  ran  my  car  up  the  road  with  a  Belgian 
medical  officer  to  the  place  where  some  wounded  men  were 
lying.  When  I  came  back  again  the  red-brick  wall  had 
fallen  into  a  heap.  The  Belgian  officer  described  the 
climate  as  "  quite  unhealthy,"  as  I  went  away  with  two 
men  dripping  blood  on  the  floor  of  the  car.  They  had  been 
brought  across  the  ferry,  further  on,  where  the  Belgian 
trenches  were  being  strewn  with  shrapnel.  Another  little 
crowd  of  wounded  men  was  there.  Many  of  them  had 
been  huddled  up  all  night  and  wet  to  the  skin,  with  their 
wounds  undressed,  and  without  any  kind  of  creature  com- 


212  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

fort.  Their  condition  had  reached  the  ultimate  bounds  of 
misery,  and  with  two  of  these  poor  fellows  I  went  away  to 
fetch  hot  coffee  for  the  others,  so  that  at  last  they  might  get 
a  little  warmth  if  they  had  strength  enough  to  drink.  .  .  . 
That  evening,  after  a  long  day  in  the  fields  of  death,  and 
when  I  came  back  from  the  village  where  men  lay  waiting 
for  rescue  or  the  last  escape,  I  looked  across  to  Nieuport- 
les-Bains.  There  w^ere  quivering  flames  above  it  and  shells 
were  bursting  over  it  with  pretty  little  puffs  of  smoke  which 
rested  in  the  opalescent  sky.  I  thought  of  the  proprietor 
of  the  Grand  Hotel,  and  wondered  if  he  had  insured  his 
house   against   "  Jack   Johnsons."  .  .  . 

Early  next  morning  I  paid  a  visit  to  the  outskirts  of 
Nieuport  town,  inland.  It  was  impossible  to  get  further 
than  the  outskirts  at  that  time,  because  in  the  center  houses 
were  falling  and  flames  were  licking  each  other  across  the 
roadways.  It  was  even  difficult  for  our  ambulances  to  get 
so  far,  because  we  had  to  pass  over  a  bridge  to  which  the 
enemy's  guns  were  paying  great  attention.  Several  of  their 
thunderbolts  fell  with  a  hiss  into  the  water  of  the  canal  where 
some  Belgian  soldiers  were  building  a  bridge  of  boats.  It 
was  just  an  odd  chance  that  our  ambulance  could  get  across 
without  being  touched,  but  we  took  the  chance  and  dodged 
between  two  shell-bursts.  On  the  other  side,  on  the  outlying 
streets,  there  was  a  litter  of  bricks  and  broken  glass,  and  a 
number  of  stricken  men  lay  huddled  in  the  parlor  of  a  small 
house  to  which  they  had  been  carried.  One  man  was  holding 
his  head  to  keep  his  brains  from  spilling,  and  the  others  lay 
tangled  amidst  upturned  chairs  and  cottage  furniture. 
There  was  the  photograph  of  a  family  group  on  the  mantel- 
piece, between  cheap  vases  which  had  been  the  pride,  perhaps, 
of  this  cottage  home.  On  one  of  the  walls  was  a  picture  of 
Christ  with  a  bleeding  heart. 

I  remember  that  at  Nieuport  there  was  a  young  Belgian 
doctor  who  had  established  himself  at  a  dangerous  post 
within  range  of  the  enemy's  guns,  and  close  to  a  stream  of 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      £13 

wounded  who  came  pouring  into  the  little  house  which  he 
had  made  into  his  field  hospital.  He  had  collected  also  about 
twenty  old  men  and  women  who  had  been  unable  to  get 
away  when  the  first  shells  fell.  Without  any  kind  of 
help  he  gave  first  aid  to  men  horribly  torn  by  the  pieces  of 
flying  shell,  and  for  three  days  and  nights  worked  very 
calmly  and  fearlessly,  careless  of  the  death  which  menaced 
his  own  life. 

Here  he  was  found  by  the  British  column  of  field  ambu- 
lances, who  took  away  the  old  people  and  relieved  him  of  the 
last  batch  of  blesses.  They  told  the  story  of  that  doctor 
over  the  supper-table  that  night,  and  hoped  he  would  be 
remembered  by  his  own  people.  .   .   . 

There  were  picnic  parties  on  the  Belgian  roadsides. 
Looking  back  now  upon  those  luncheon  hours,  with  khaki 
ambulances  as  shelters  from  the  shrewd  wind  that  came 
across  the  marshes,  I  marvel  at  the  contrast  between  their 
gaiety  and  the  brooding  horror  in  the  surrounding  scene. 
Bottles  of  wine  were  produced  and  no  man  thought  of  blood 
when  he  drank  its  redness,  though  the  smell  of  blood  reeked 
from  the  stretchers  in  the  cars.  There  were  hunks  of  good 
Flemish  cheese  with  fresh  bread  and  butter,  and  it  was 
extraordinary  what  appetites  we  had,  though  guns  were 
booming  a  couple  of  kilometers  away  and  the  enemy  was 
smashing  the  last  strongholds  of  the  Belgians.  The  women 
in  their  field  kit,  so  feminine  though  it  included  breeches, 
gave  a  grace  to  those  wa^^side  halts,  and  gave  to  dirty  men 
the  chance  of  little  courtesies  which  brought  back  civilization 
to  their  thoughts,  even  though  life  had  gone  back  to  primitive 
things  with  just  life  and  death,  hunger  and  thirst,  love  and 
courage,  as  the  laws  of  existence.  The  man  who  had  a  cork- 
screw could  command  respect.  A  lady  with  gold-spun  hair 
could  gnaw  a  chicken  bone  without  any  loss  of  beauty.  The 
chauffeurs  munched  solidly,  making  cockney  jokes  out  of  full 
mouths  and  abolishing  all  distinctions  of  caste  by  their 
comradeship  in  great  adventures  when  their  courage,  their 


214!  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

cool  nerve,  their  fine  endurance  at  the  wheel,  and  their  skill 
in  taking  heavy  ambulances  down  muddy  roads  with  skidding 
wheels,  saved  many  men's  lives  and  won  a  heartfelt  praise. 
Little  groups  of  Belgian  soldiers  came  up  wistfully  and 
lingered  round  us  as  though  liking  the  sight  of  us,  and  the 
sound  of  our  English  speech,  and  the  gallantry  of  those  girls 
who  went  into  the  firing-lines  to  rescue  their  wounded. 

"  They  are  wonderful,  your  English  ladies,"  said  a  bearded 
man.  He  hesitated  a  moment  and  then  asked  timidly: 
"  Do  you  think  I  might  shake  hands  with  one  of  them?  " 

I  arranged  the  little  matter,  and  he  trudged  off  with  a 
flush  on  his  cheeks  as  though  he  had  been  in  the  presence  of 
a  queen,  and  graciously  received. 

The  Belgian  officers  were  eager  to  be  presented  to  these 
ladies  and  paid  them  handsome  compliments,  I  think  the 
presence  of  these  young  women  with  their  hypodermic 
syringes  and  first-aid  bandages,  and  their  skill  in  driving 
heavy  motor-cars,  and  their  spiritual  disregard  of  danger, 
gave  a  sense  of  comfort  and  tenderness  to  those  men  who 
had  been  long  absent  from  their  women  folk  and  long  suffering 
in  the  bleak  and  ugly  cruelty  of  war.  There  was  no  false 
sentiment,  no  disguised  gallantry,  in  the  homage  of  the 
Belgians  to  those  ladies.  It  was  the  simple,  chivalrous 
respect  of  soMiers  to  dauntless  women  who  had  come  to  help 
them  when  they  were  struck  down  and  needed  pity. 

Women,  with  whom  for  a  little  while  I  could  call  myself 
comrade,  I  think  of  you  now  and  marvel  at  you!  The  call 
of  the  wild  had  brought  some  of  you  out  to  those  fields  of 
death.  The  need  of  more  excitement  than  modern  life  gives 
in  time  of  peace,  even  the  chance  to  forget,  had  been  the 
motives  with  which  two  or  three  of  you,  I  think,  came  upon 
these  scenes  of  history,  taking  all  risks  recklessly,  playing  a 
man's  part  with  feminine  pluck,  glad  of  this  liberty,  far 
from  the  conventions  of  the  civilized  code,  yet  giving  no  hint 
of  scandal  to  sharp-eared  gossip.  But  most  of  you  had  no 
other  thought  than  that  of  pity  and  helpfulness,  and  with  a 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      215 

little  flame  of  faith  in  your  hearts  you  bore  the  weight  of 
bleeding  men,  and  eased  their  pain  when  it  was  too  intolerable. 
No  soldiers  in  the  armies  of  the  Allies  have  better  right  to 
wear  the  decorations  which  a  king  of  sorrow  gave  you  for 
your  gallantry  in  action. 

The  Germans  were  still  trying  to  smash  their  way  through 
the  lines  held  by  the  Belgians,  with  French  support.  They 
were  making  tremendous  attacks  at  different  places,  search- 
ing for  the  breaking  point  by  which  they  could  force  their 
way  to  Furnes  and  on  to  Dunkirk.  It  was  difficult  to  know 
whether  they  were  succeeding  or  failing.  It  is  difficult  to 
know  anything  on  a  modern  battlefield  where  men  holding  one 
village  are  ignorant  of  what  is  happening  in  the  next,  and 
where  all  the  sections  of  an  army  seem  involved  in  a  bewilder- 
ing chaos,  out  of  touch  with  each  other,  waiting  for  orders 
which  do  not  seem  to  come,  moving  forward  for  no  apparent 
reason,  retiring  for  other  reasons  hard  to  find,  or  resting, 
without  firing  a  shot,  in  places  searched  by  the  enemy's  fire. 
The  enemy  had  built  eight  pontoon  bridges  over  the  Yser 
canal,  but  all  of  them  had  been  destroyed.  This  was  a  good 
piece  of  news.  But  against  it  was  the  heavy  loss  of  a  Belgian 
company  holding  another  bridge  farther  down  the  river.  At 
Dixmude  the  Belgians  held  the  outer  streets.  Outside  there 
had  been  heavy  trench  fighting.  The  enemy  had  charged 
several  times  with  the  bayonet,  but  had  been  raked  back 
by  the  mitrailleuses. 

Things  were  going  on  rather  well  at  most  parts  of  the  line. 
The  French  batteries  were  getting  the  range  every  time  and 
their  gunners  were  guessing  at  heaps  of  German  dead.  The 
Belgian  infantry  was  holding  firm.  Their  cavalry  was  out 
of  action  for  the  time,  trying  to  keep  warm  on  the  roadsides. 
That  was  all  the  truth  that  I  could  get  out  of  a  tangle  of 
confused  details.  All  through  another  day  I  watched  the 
business  of  battle  —  a  strange,  mysterious  thing  in  which  one 
fails  to  find  any  controlling  brain.  Regiments  came  out  of 
the  trenches  and  wandered  back,  caked  with  clay,  haggard  for 


216  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

lack  of  sleep,  with  a  glint  of  hunger  in  their  eyes.  Guns 
passed  along  the  roads  with  ammunition  wagons,  whose 
axles  shrieked  over  the  stones.  For  an  hour  a  Belgian 
batterj'  kept  plugging  shots  towards  the  enemy's  lines.  The 
artillerj'mcn  were  leisurely  at  their  work,  handling  their  shells 
with  interludes  of  conversation.  At  luncheon  time  they  lay 
about  behind  the  guns  smoking  cigarettes,  and  I  was  glad, 
for  each  of  their  shots  seemed  to  wreck  my  own  brain.  At 
a  neighboring  village  things  were  more  lively.  The  enemy 
was  turning  his  fire  this  way.  A  captive  balloon  had  sig- 
naled the  position,  and  shrapnels  were  bursting  close.  One 
shell  tore  up  a  great  hole  near  the  railway  line. 

Shell  after  shell  fell  upon  one  dung-heap  —  mistaken 
perhaps  for  a  company  of  men.  Shrapnel  bullets  pattered 
into  the  roadway,  a  piece  of  jagged  shell  fell  with  a  clatter. 

My  own  chauffeur  —  a  3'oung  man  of  very  cool  nerve  and 
the  best  driver  I  have  known  — picked  it  up  with  a  grin,  and 
then  dropped  it,  with  a  sharp  cry.  It  was  almost  red-hot. 
The  flames  of  the  enemy's  batteries  could  be  seen  stabbing 
through  a  fringe  of  trees,  perhaps  two  kilometers  away,  by 
Pervyse.  Their  shells  were  making  puffballs  of  smoke  over 
neighboring  farms,  and  for  miles  round  I  could  see  the  clouds 
stretching  out  into  long,  thin  wisps.  The  air  throbbed  with 
horrible  concussions,  the  dull  full  boom  of  big  guns,  the  sharp 
staccato  of  the  smaller  shell,  and  the  high  singing  note  of 
it  as  it  came  soaring  overhead.  Gradually  one  began  to 
realize  the  boredom  of  battle,  to  acquire  some  of  that  fan- 
tastic indifference  to  the  chance  of  death  which  enables  the 
soldiers  to  stir  their  soup  without  an  upward  glance  at  a 
skyful  of  jagged  steel.  Only  now  and  then  the  old  question 
came  to  one,  "  This  —  or  the  next?  " 

It  was  only  the  adventure  of  searching  out  the  wounded 
that  broke  the  monotony  for  the  Belgian  ambulance  men. 
At  first  they  were  not  hard  to  find  —  they  were  crowded  upon 
the  straw  in  cottage  parlors,  cleared  of  all  but  the  cheap 
vases   on   the   mantelshelf  and   family   photographs   tacked 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      217 

upon  walls  that  had  not  been  built  for  the  bloody  mess  of 
tragedy  which  they  now  enclosed.  On  their  bodies  they 
bore  the  signs  of  the  tremendous  accuracy  of  the  enemy's 
artillery,  and  by  their  number,  increasing  during  the  day, 
one  could  guess  at  the  tragic  endurance  of  the  Belgian 
infantry  in  the  ring  of  iron  which  was  closing  upon  them ; 
drawing  just  a  little  nearer  by  half  a  village  or  half  a  road 
as  the  hours  passed.  The  ambulances  carried  them  away 
to  the  station  of  Fortem,  where  those  who  could  still  sit  up 
were  packed  into  a  steam  tram,  and  where  the  stretcher 
cases  were  taken  to  the  civil  hospital  at  Fumes  by  motor 
transport.  But  in  outlying  farmsteads  in  the  zone  of  fire, 
and  in  isolated  cottages  which  had  been  struck  by  a  chance 
shot,  were  other  wounded  men  difficult  to  get.  It  was  work 
for  scouting  cars,  and  too  dangerous  for  ambulances. 

Some  volunteers  made  several  journeys  down  the  open 
roads  to  places  not  exactly  suitable  for  dalliance.  Lieu- 
tenant de  Broqueville  called  upon  me  for  this  purpose  several 
times  because  I  had  a  fast  little  car.  I  was  glad  of  the 
honor,  though  when  he  pointed  to  a  distant  roof  where  a 
wounded  man  was  reported  to  be  lying,  it  looked  to  me  a 
long,  long  way  in  the  zone  of  fire.  Two  houses  blown  to 
pieces  by  the  side  of  a  ditch  showed  that  the  enemy's  shells 
were  dropping  close,  and  it  was  a  test  of  nerves  to  drive 
deliberately  through  the  flat  fields  with  sharp,  stabbing  flashes 
on  their  frontiers,  and  right  into  the  middle  of  an  infernal 
tumult  of  guns. 

It  was  in  the  darkness  that  I  went  back  to  Fumes  again, 
with  the  last  of  the  wounded  —  a  French  corporal,  who 
groaned  in  anguish  at  every  jolt  in  the  road,  and  then  was 
silent  with  his  head  flopping  sideways  in  a  way  that  frightened 
me.  Several  times  I  called  back  to  him,  "  Courage,  mon 
vieux !  .  .  .  Comment  allez  vous  ?  "  But  he  made  no 
answer  and  there  were  times  when  I  thought  I  had  a  dead 
man  behind  me.  A  biting  wind  was  blowing,  and  I  leaned 
over  his  seat  to  put  a  blanket  over  him.     But  it  always  blew 


218  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

off  that  dcad-gra}'  face  and  blood-stained  body.  Once  he 
groaned,  and  I  was  glad  to  hear  the  sound  and  to  know  that 
he  was  still  alive.  Another  man  trudging  along  the  highway, 
using  his  rifle  as  a  crutch,  called  out.  He  spoke  the  word 
blesse,  and  I  stopped  to  take  him  up  and  sped  on  again, 
glancing  to  right  and  left  at  the  villages  on  fire,  at  the  quick 
flashes  of  Belgian  and  Gennan  artillery'  signaling  death  to 
each  other  in  the  night.  The  straight  trees  rushed  by  like 
tall,  hurrying  ghosts.  For  the  most  of  the  way  we  drove 
without  our  head-lights  through  tunnels  of  darkness. 
"  Queer,  isn't  it.''  "  said  my  driver,  and  it  was  his  only  com- 
ment on  this  adventure  in  the  strangest  drama  of  his  life. 

That  night  the  wind  came  howling  across  the  flat  fields 
into  Fumes  and  a  rain-storm  broke  in  fierce  gusts  upon  the 
convent  walls.  In  this  old  building  with  many  corridors  and 
innumerable  windows,  panes  of  glass  rattled  and  window- 
sashes  creaked  and  doors  banged  like  thunderclaps.  It  was 
impossible  to  keep  a  candle  alight  down  any  of  the  passages 
unless  it  were  protected  in  a  lantern,  and  a  cold  mist  crept 
into  the  house,  stealthily  striking  one  with  a  clammy  chill. 
I  stayed  up  most  of  the  night  in  the  kitchen,  having  volun- 
teered to  stoke  the  fires  and  fill  hot-water  bottles  for  the 
wounded.  Most  of  the  nurses  had  gone  to  bed  utterly  ex- 
hausted. Only  two  or  three  of  them  remained  in  the  wards 
with  one  of  the  doctors.  Every  now  and  then  the  outer 
bell  would  jangle,  and  I  would  hear  the  wheels  of  an  ambu- 
lance crunching  into  the  courtyard. 

"  Blesses ! "  said  a  woman  who  was  watching  the  fires 
with  me. 

But  we  could  not  take  in  another  blesse,  as  there  were  no 
more  beds  or  bed-spaces,  and  after  despairing  conversations 
Belgian  ambulance  officers  at  the  front  door  of  the  convent 
went  elsewhere.  The  house  became  very  quiet  except  for  the 
noise  of  the  wind  and  the  rain.  In  the  scullery  where  I  sat 
by  the  stoves  which  were  in  my  charge,  I  could  hear  only  one 
voice  speaking.     It  was  speaking  two  rooms  away,  in  a  long. 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      219 

incessant  monologue  of  madness.  Now  and  again  a  white- 
faced  nurse  came  out  for  newly  filled  water-bottles,  and  while 
I  scalded  my  fingers  with  screws  which  would  not  fit  and  with 
boiling  water  poured  into  narrow  necks,  she  told  me  about  a 
French  officer  who  was  dying. 

"  He  wants  his  wife  so  badly.  He  would  die  quite  happily 
if  he  could  only  see  her  for  a  minute.  But  she  is  in  Paris, 
and  he  will  be  dead  before  the  morning  comes.  ...  I  have 
written  a  letter  for  him,  and  he  kissed  it  before  I  wrote  his 
wife's  address.     He  keeps  calling  out  her  name." 

The  scullery  was  warm  and  cozy,  in  spite  of  all  the 
draughts.  Sitting  back  in  a  wooden  chair,  I  nearly  fell 
asleep,  because  I  had  had  a  long  day  in  the  fields  and  fatigue 
threatened  to  overwhelm  me.  But  I  wakened  with  a  start 
when  a  door  opened,  letting  in  a  sudden  blast  of  cold  air 
and  the  noise  of  the  beating  rain,  and  then  banged  to  with 
-violence.  I  seemed  to  hear  footsteps  coming  across  the 
Tiitchen  floor,  and,  with  an  eerie  feeling  of  some  new  presence 
in  the  convent,  I  strode  out  of  the  scullery.  A  queer  little 
figure  startled  me.  It  was  a  girl  in  man's  clothes,  except 
for  a  white  cap  on  her  head,  tight-fitting  above  her  eyes. 
She  was  dripping  wet  and  caked  in  slimy  mud,  and  she  fal- 
tered forward  a  little  and  spoke  in  French. 

"  I  am  very  wet.  And  so  tired  and  hungry !  If  I  could 
sleep  here,  on  the  floor,  and  dry  myself  a  little  — " 

"Who  are  you?"  I  asked.  There  seemed  something 
uncanny  in  this  little  figure  coming  out  of  the  wild  night. 

It  appeared  that  she  was  one  of  two  Belgian  girls  who 
since  the  beginning  of  the  war  had  acted  as  injirmieres  with 
the  Belgian  troops,  giving  the  first  aid  in  the  trenches,  carry- 
ing hot  soup  to  them,  and  living  with  them  under  fire.  She 
seemed  hardly  more  than  a  child,  and  spoke  childishly  in  a 
pitiful  way,  while  she  twisted  the  corner  of  her  jacket  so  that 
water  came  out  and  made  a  pool  about  her  on  the  boards. 
She  dried  herself  in  front  of  the  fire  and  ate  —  ravenously  — 
some  food  which  had  been  left  on  a  side-table,  and  then  lay 


220  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

down  in  a  corner  of  the  refectory,  falling  into  the  deepest 
sleep  as  soon  as  her  head  had  touched  the  mattress.  She  did 
not  wake  next  morning,  though  fifty-five  people  made  a  clatter 
at  the  breakfast-table,  and  at  four  in  the  afternoon  she  was 
still  sleeping,  like  a  sick  child,  with  her  head  drooping  over 
the  mattress. 

That  day,  owing  to  the  heavy  rain  in  the  night,  the  roads 
were  slimy  with  mud,  so  that  the  cars  skidded  almost  over 
the  brim  of  the  dykes.  There  was  more  movement  among  the 
troops,  less  sitting  about  for  orders.  Officers  were  riding 
up  and  down  the  roads,  and  wheeling  into  little  groups  for 
quick  discussion.  Something  was  happening  —  something 
more  than  the  ding-dong  slam  of  the  guns.  A  regiment  of 
Belgian  infantry  came  plodding  through  the  mud,  covered 
with  whitish  clay  even  to  their  top-hats.  They  were  earth- 
men,  with  the  blanched  look  of  creatures  who  live  below 
ground.  The  news  was  whispered  about  that  the  enemy  was 
breaking  through  along  one  of  the  roads  between  Nieuport 
and  Furnes.  Then  the  report  came  through  that  they  had 
smashed  their  way  to  Wulpen. 

"  We  hope  to  hold  them,"  said  an  officer,  "  but  Furnes  is  in 
danger.     It  will  be  necessary  to  clear  out." 

In  consequence  of  this  report,  it  was  necessary  to  be  quick 
in  the  search  for  the  wounded  who  had  been  struck  down  in 
the  night.  The  medical  men  were  resolute  not  to  go  until 
they  had  taken  in  all  that  could  be  removed  in  time.  A  little 
crowd  of  them  were  in  a  small  villa  along  the  road.  They 
were  wet  to  the  skin  and  quite  famished,  without  food  or 
drink.  A  car  went  back  for  hot  coffee  and  bread.  There 
was  another  group  of  wounded  in  the  church  of  Oudecapelle. 

They  were  bad  cases,  and  lay  still  upon  the  straw.  I 
shall  never  forget  the  picture  of  that  church  with  its  painted 
statues  huddled  together  and  toppled  down.  St.  Antony 
of  Padua  and  St.  Sebastian  were  there  in  the  straw,  and 
crude  pictures  of  saints  on  the  walls  stared  down  upon  those 
bodies  lying  so  quiet  on  the  floor.     It  was  the  house  of  God, 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      221 

but  it  was  filled  with  the  cruelty  of  life,  and  those  statues 
seem  to  mock  at  men's  faith. 

In  Furnes  the  news  of  the  danger  seemed  to  have  been 
scented  by  the  people.  They  had  packed  a  few  things  into 
bundles  and  made  ready  to  leave  their  homes.  In  the  con- 
vent where  I  had  helped  to  wash  up  and  to  fill  the  part  of 
odd-job  man  when  I  was  not  out  with  the  "  flying  column," 
the  doctors  and  nurses  were  already  loading  the  ambulances 
with  all  their  cases.  The  last  of  the  wounded  was  sent  away 
to  a  place  of  safety.  He  was  a  man  with  a  saber  cut  on  his 
head,  who  for  four  days  had  lain  quite  still,  with  a  grave 
Oriental  face,  which  seemed  in  the  tranquillity  of  death. 

A  group  of  nuns  pleaded  to  be  taken  with  the  doctors  and 
nurses.  They  could  help  in  the  wards  or  in  the  kitchen  — 
if  only  they  might  go  and  escape  the  peril  of  the  German 
soldiery. 

I  went  across  the  square  to  my  own  room  in  the  Hotel  de  la 
Couronne,  and  put  a  few  things  together.  A  friend  of  mine 
who  helped  me  told  the  story  of  a  life  —  the  mistakes  that 
had  nearly  ruined  it,  the  adventures  of  a  heart.  A  queer 
conversation  at  a  time  when  the  enemy  was  coming  down  the 
road.  The  guns  were  very  loud  over  Wulpen  way.  They 
seemed  to  be  coming  closer.  Yet  there  was  no  panic.  There 
was  even  laughter  in  the  courtyard  of  the  hospital,  where  the 
doctors  tossed  blankets,  mattresses,  food  stores  and  stoves 
into  the  motor  ambulances.  They  were  in  no  hurry  to  go. 
It  was  not  the  first  or  the  second  time  they  had  to  evacuate 
a  house  menaced  by  the  enemy.  They  had  made  a  habit  of 
it,  and  were  not  to  be  flurried.  I  helped  the  blue-eyed  boy 
to  lift  the  great  stoves.  They  were  "  some  "  weight,  as  an 
American  would  say,  and  both  the  blue-eyed  boy  and  myself 
were  plastered  with  soot,  so  that  we  looked  like  sweeps  call- 
ing round  for  orders.  I  lifted  packing  cases  which  would 
have  paralyzed  me  in  times  of  peace  and  scouted  round  for 
some  of  the  thousand  and  one  things  which  could  not  be  left 
behind  without  a  tragedy.     But  at  last  the  order  was  given 


gS2  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

to  start,  and  the  procession  of  motor-cars  started  out  tot 
Poperinghe,  twenty-five  kilometers  to  the  south.  Little  by 
little  the  sound  of  the  guns  died  away,  and  the  cars  passed 
through  quiet  fields  where  French  troops  bivouacked  round 
their  camp  fires.  I  remember  that  we  passed  a  regiment  of 
Moroccans  half-way  to  Poperinghe,  and  I  looked  back  from 
the  car  to  watch  them  pacing  up  and  down  between  their  fires, 
which  glowed  under  their  red  cloaks  and  white  robes  and  their 
grave,  bearded  Arab  faces.  They  looked  miserably  cold  as 
the  wind  flapped  their  loose  garments,  but  about  these  men  in 
the  muddy  field  there  was  a  somber  dignity  which  took  one's 
imagination  back  to  the  day  when  the  Saracens  held  European 
soil. 

It  was  dark  when  we  reached  Poperinghe  and  halted  our 
cars  in  the  square  outside  the  Town  Hall,  among  a  crowd  of 
other  motor-cars,  naval  lorries,  mitrailleuses,  and  wagons. 
Groups  of  British  soldiers  stood  about  smoking  cigarettes 
and  staring  at  us  curiously  through  the  gloom  as  though  not 
quite  sure  what  to  make  of  us.  And  indeed  we  must  have 
looked  an  odd  party,  for  some  of  us  were  in  khaki  and  some 
of  us  in  civilian  clothes  with  Belgian  caps,  and  among  the 
crowd  of  nurses  was  a  carriage  load  of  nuns,  huddled  up  in 
their  black  cloaks.  Warning  of  our  arrival  in  Poperinghe 
should  have  been  notified  to  the  municipal  authorities,  so  that 
they  might  find  lodgings  for  us ;  and  the  Queen  of  the  Bel- 
gians had  indeed  sent  through  a  message  to  that  effect.  But 
there  seemed  to  be  some  trouble  about  finding  a  roof  under 
which  to  lay  our  heads,  and  an  hour  went  by  in  the  square 
while  the  lady  in  charge  of  the  domesticity  department  inter- 
viewed the  mayor,  cajoled  the  corporation,  and  inspected  con- 
vents down  side  streets.  She  came  back  at  last  with  a  little 
hopelessness  in  her  eyes. 

"  Goodness  knows  where  we  can  go !  There  doesn't 
seem  room  for  a  mouse  in  Poperinghe,  and  meanwhile  the 
poor  nurses  are  dying  of  hunger.  We  must  get  into  some 
kind  of  shelter." 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      228 

I  was  commissioned  to  find  at  least  a  temporary  abode  and 
to  search  around  for  food ;  not  at  all  an  easy  task  in  a  dark 
town  where  I  had  never  been  before  and  crowded  with  the 
troops  of  three  nations.  I  was  also  made  the  shepherd  of  all 
these  sheep,  who  were  commanded  to  keep  their  eyes  upon  me 
and  not  to  go  astray  but  to  follow  where  I  led.  It  was  a 
most  ridiculous  position  for  a  London  journalist  of  a  shy 
and  retiring  nature,  especially  as  some  of  the  nurses  were  get- 
ting out  of  hand  and  indulging  in  private  adventures.  One 
of  them,  a  most  buxom  and  jolly  soul,  who,  as  she  confided  to 
me,  "  didn't  care  a  damn,"  had  established  friendly  relations 
with  a  naval  lieutenant,  and  I  had  great  trouble  in  dragging 
her  away  from  his  engaging  conversation.  Others  had  dis- 
covered a  shop  where  hot  coffee  was  being  served  to  British 
soldiers  who  were  willing  to  share  it  with  attractive  ladies. 
A  pretty  shepherd  I  looked  when  half  my  flock  had  gone 
astray !  Then  one  of  the  chauffeurs  had  something  like  an 
apoplectic  stroke  in  the  street  —  the  effect  of  a  nervous  crisis 
after  a  day  under  shell-fire  —  and  with  two  friendly  "  Tom- 
mies "  I  helped  to  drag  him  into  the  Town  Hall.  He  was  a 
very  stout  young  man,  with  well-developed  muscles,  and  hav- 
ing lain  for  some  time  in  a  state  of  coma,  he  suddenly  became 
delirious  and  tried  to  fight  me.  I  disposed  of  him  in  a  back- 
yard, where  he  gradually  recovered,  and  then  I  set  out  again 
in  search  of  my  sheep.  After  scouting  about  Popcringhe  in 
the  darkness,  I  discovered  a  beer  tavern  with  a  fair-sized  room 
in  which  the  party  might  be  packed  with  care,  and  then,  like 
a  pocket  patriarch  with  the  children  of  Israel,  I  led  my  ladies 
on  foot  to  the  place  of  sanctuary  and  disposed  the  nuns  round 
the  bar,  with  the  reverend  mother  in  the  center  of  them,  hav- 
ing a  little  aureole  round  her  head  from  the  glamour  of  the 
pewter  pots.  The  others  crowded  in  anyhow  and  said  in  a 
dreadful  chorus,  like  Katherine  in  "  The  Taming  of  the 
Shrew,"  "  We  want  our  supper !  " 

A  brilliant  inspiration  came  to  me.  As  there  were  British 
troops  in  Poperinghe,  there  must  also  be  British  rations,  and 


224.  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

I  had  glorious  visions  of  Maconochie  and  army  biscuits.  Out 
into  the  dark  streets  again  I  went  with  my  little  car,  and 
after  wayside  conversations  with  British  soldiers  who  knew 
nothing  but  their  own  job,  found  at  last  the  officer  in  charge 
of  the  commissariat.  He  was  a  tall  fellow  and  rather 
hauglity  in  the  style  of  a  British  officer  confronted  abruptly 
with  an  unusual  request.  He  wanted  to  know  who  the  devil 
I  was,  not  liking  my  civilian  clothes  and  suspecting  a  German 
spy.  But  he  became  sympathetic  when  I  told  him,  quite  dis- 
honestly, that  I  was  in  charge  of  a  British  field  ambulance 
under  the  Belgian  Government,  which  had  been  forced  to 
evacuate  Furnes  as  the  enemy  had  broken  through  the  Belgian 
lines.  I  expressed  my  gratitude  for  his  kindness,  which  I 
was  sure  he  would  show,  in  providing  fifty-five  army  rations 
for  fifty-five  doctors  and  nurses  devilishly  hungry  and 
utterly  destitute.  After  some  hesitation  he  consented  to  give 
me  a  "  chit,"  and  turning  to  a  sergeant  who  had  been  my  guide 
down  a  dark  street,  said :  "  Take  this  officer  to  the  depot 
and  see  that  he  gets  everything  he  wants."  It  was  a  little 
triumph  not  to  be  appreciated  by  readers  who  do  not  know 
the  humiliations  experienced  by  correspondents  in  time  of 
war. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  ofl^cer  came  paddling  down  the 
street  after  me,  and  I  expected  instant  arrest  and  solitary 
confinement  to  the  end  of  the  war.  But  he  was  out  for  in- 
formation. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  he  said,  very  politely,  "  but 
would  you  mind  giving  me  a  sketch  of  the  military  situation 
round  your  part?  " 

I  gave  him  an  outline  of  the  affair  which  had  caused  the 
Belgian  headquarters  staff  to  shift  from  Fumes,  and  though 
it  was,  I  fancy,  slightly  over-colored,  he  was  very  much 
obliged.  ...  So,  gloriously,  I  drove  back  to  the  beer-tavern 
with  the  fifty-five  army  rations  which  were  enough  to  feed 
fifty-five  starving  people  for  a  week,  and  was  received  with 
cheers.     That  night,  conscious  of  good  deeds,  I  lay  down  in 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      225 

the  straw  of  a  school  house  which  had  been  turned  into  a  bar- 
racks, and  by  the  light  of  several  candle-ends,  scribbled  a  long 
despatch,  which  became  a  very  short  one  when  the  British 
censor  had  worked  his  will  with  it. 

After  all,  the  ambulance  column  did  not  have  to  stay  in 
Poperinghe,  but  went  back  to  their  old  quarters,  with  doctors, 
nurses  and  nuns,  and  all  their  properties.  The  enemy  had 
not  followed  up  its  advantages,  and  the  Belgian  troops,  aided 
by  French  marines  and  other  French  troops  who  now  arrived 
in  greater  numbers,  thrust  them  back  and  barred  the  way  to 
Dunkirk.  The  waters  of  the  Yser  had  helped  to  turn  the  tide 
of  war.  The  sluice  gates  were  opened  and  flooded  the  sur- 
rounding fields,  so  that  the  enemy's  artillery  was  bogged  and 
could  not  move.  For  a  little  while  the  air  in  all  that  region 
between  Furncs  and  Nieuport,  Dixmude  and  Pcrvyse,  was 
cleansed  of  the  odor  and  fume  of  battle.  But  there  were 
other  causes  of  the  German  withdrawal  after  one  day,  at 
least,  when  it  seemed  that  nothing  short  of  miraculous  aid 
could  hold  them  from  a  swift  advance  along  the  coast.  The 
chief  cause  was  to  be  found  at  Ypres,  where  the  British  army 
sustained  repeated  and  most  desperate  onslaughts.  Ypres 
was  now  the  storm  center  in  a  ten-days'  battle  of  guns,  which 
was  beyond  all  doubt  the  most  ferocious  and  bloody  episode 
in  the  first  year  of  war  on  the  western  side  of  operations. 
Repeatedly,  after  being  checked  in  their  attacks  by  a 
slaughter  which  almost  annihilated  entire  regiments,  the  Ger- 
mans endeavored  to  repair  their  shattered  strength  by  bring- 
ing up  every  available  man  and  gun  for  another  bout  of 
blood.  We  know  now  that  it  was  one  of  the  most  awful  con- 
flicts in  which  humanity  has  ever  agonized.  Heroism  shone 
through  it  on  both  sides.  The  resistance  and  nerve  strength 
of  the  British  troops  were  almost  superhuman,  and  in  spite 
of  losses  which  might  have  demoralized  any  army,  however 
splendid  in  valor,  they  fought  on  with  that  dogged  spirit 
which  filled  the  trenches  at  Badajoz  and  held  the  lines  of 
Torres  Vedras,  a  hundred  years  before,  when  the  British  race 


226  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

seemed  to  be  stronger  than  its  modem  generation.  There 
were  hours  when  all  seemed  lost,  when  it  was  impossible  to 
bring  up  reserves  to  fill  the  gaps  in  our  bleeding  battalions, 
when  so  many  dead  and  wounded  lay  about  and  so  few  re- 
mained to  serve  the  guns  and  hold  the  trenches  that  another 
attack  pushed  home  would  have  swept  through  our  lines  and 
broken  us  to  bits.  The  cooks  and  the  commissariat  men  took 
their  places  in  the  trenches,  and  every  man  who  could  hold  a 
rifle  fired  tliat  day  for  England's  sake,  though  England  did 
not  know  her  peril. 

But  the  German  losses  were  enormous  also,  and  during 
those  ten  days  they  sacrificed  themselves  with  a  kind  of 
Oriental  valor,  such  as  heaped  the  fields  of  Omdurman  with 
Soudanese.  The  Kaiser  was  the  new  Mahdi  for  whom  men 
died  in  masses,  going  with  fatalistic  resignation  to  inevitable 
death.  After  a  lull  for  burning  and  burial,  for  the  refilling 
of  great  gaps  in  regiments  and  divisions,  the  enemy  moved 
against  us  with  new  masses,  but  again  death  awaited  them, 
in  spite  of  all  their  guns,  and  the  British  held  their 
ground. 

They  held  their  ground  with  superb  and  dauntless  valor, 
and  out  of  the  general  horror  of  it  all  there  emerges  the  fine, 
bright  chivalry  of  young  officers  and  men  who  did  amazing' 
deeds,  which  read  like  fairy  tales,  even  when  they  are  told 
soberly  in  official  despatches.  In  this  slaughter  field  the  indi- 
vidual still  found  a  chance  now  and  then  of  personal  prowess, 
and  not  all  his  human  qualities  had  been  annihilated  or 
stupefied  by  the  overwhelming  power  of  artillery. 

The  town  of  Ypres  was  added  to  the  list  of  other  Belgian 
towns  like  those  in  which  I  saw  the  ruin  of  a  nation. 

It  existed  no  longer  as  a  place  of  ancient  beauty  in  which 
men  and  women  made  their  homes,  trustful  of  fate.  Many  of 
its  houses  had  fallen  into  the  roadways  and  heaped  them  high 
with  broken  bricks  and  shattered  glass.  Others  burned  with 
a  fine,  fierce  glow  inside  the  outer  walls.  The  roofs  had 
crashed  down  into  the  cellars.     All  between,  furniture  and 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      227 

paneling  and  household  treasures,  had  been  buraed  out  into 
black  ash  or  moldered  in  glowing  embers. 

The  great  Cloth  Hall,  which  had  been  one  of  the  most 
magnificent  treasures  of  ancient  architecture  in  Europe,  was 
smashed  and  battered  by  incessant  shells,  so  that  it  became 
one  vast  ruin  of  broken  walls  and  fallen  pillars  framed  about  a 
scrapheap  of  twisted  iron  and  calcined  statues,  when  one  day 
later  in  the  war  I  wandered  for  an  hour  or  more  groping  for 
some  little  relic  which  would  tell  the  tale  of  this  tragedy. 

On  my  desk  now  at  home  there  are  a  few  long,  rusty  nails, 
an  old  lock  of  fifteenth  century  workmanship,  and  a  little 
broken  window  with  leaded  panes,  which  serve  as  mementos 
of  this  destruction. 

The  inhabitants  of  Ypres  had  gone,  unless  some  of  them 
were  hiding,  or  buried  in  their  cellars.  A  few  dogs  roamed 
about,  barking  or  whining  at  the  soldiers  who  passed  through 
the  outskirts  staring  at  all  this  destruction  with  curious  eyes, 
and  storing  up  images  for  which  they  will  never  find  the  right 
words. 

Two  young  naval  ofl^cers  who  went  into  Ypres  one  day 
tried  to  coax  one  of  the  dogs  to  come  with  them.  "  Might 
have  brought  us  luck,"  they  said,  hiding  their  pity  for  a  poor 
beast.  But  it  slunk  back  into  the  ruin  of  its  master's  house, 
distrustful  of  men  who  did  things  not  belonging  to  the  code 
of  beasts. 

Human  qualities  were  not  annihilated,  I  have  said.  Yet 
in  a  general  way  that  was  the  effect  of  modern  weapons,  and 
at  Ypres  masses  of  men  did  not  fight  so  much  as  stand  until 
they  died. 

"  We  just  wait  for  death,"  said  a  Belgian  officer  one  night, 
"  and  wonder  if  it  doesn't  reach  us  out  of  all  this  storm  of 
shells.  It  is  a  war  without  soul  or  adventure.  In  the  early 
days,  when  I  scoured  the  country  with  a  party  of  motor 
scouts  there  was  some  sport  in  it.  Any  audacity  we  had,  or 
any  cunning,  could  get  some  kind  of  payment.  The  indi- 
vidual counted. 


228  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

"  But  now,  in  the  business  round  Ypres,  what  can  men  do 
—  infantry,  cavalrj^,  scouts?  It  is  the  gun  that  does  all  the 
business  heaving  out  shells,  delivering  death  in  a  merciless 
way.  It  is  guns,  with  men  as  targets,  helpless  as  the  leaves 
that  are  torn  from  these  autumn  trees  around  us  by  a 
storm  of  hail.  Our  men  are  falling  like  the  leaves,  and 
the  ground  is  heaped  with  them,  and  there  is  no  decisive 
victory  on  either  side.  One  week  of  death  is  followed  by 
another  week  of  death.  The  position  changes  a  little, 
that  is  all,  and  the  business  goes  on  again.  It  is  appal- 
ling." 

The  same  words  were  used  to  me  on  the  same  night  by  a 
surgeon  who  had  just  come  from  the  station  of  Dunkirk, 
where  the  latest  batch  of  wounded  —  a  thousand  of  them  — 
were  lying  on  the  straw.  "  It  is  appalling,"  he  said.  "  The 
destruction  of  this  shell-fire  is  making  a  shambles  of  human 
bodies.  How  can  we  cope  with  it?  What  can  we  do  with 
such  a  butchery  ?  " 

Round  about  Furnes  there  was  a  fog  in  the  war  zone.  In 
the  early  dawn  until  the  morning  had  passed,  and  then  again 
as  the  dusk  fell  and  the  mists  crept  along  the  canals  and 
floated  over  the  flat  fields,  men  groped  about  it  like  ghosts, 
with  ghostly  guns. 

Shells  came  hurtling  out  of  the  veil  of  the  mist  and  burst 
in  places  which  seemed  hidden  behind  cotton-wool.  An  un- 
seen enemy  was  killing  unseen  men,  and  other  guns  replied 
into  this  grim,  gray  mystery,  not  knowing  what  destruction 
is  being  done. 

It  was  like  the  war  itself,  which  was  utterly  shrouded  in 
these  parts  by  a  fog  of  mystery.  Watching  it  close  at  hand 
(when  things  are  more  difficult  to  sort  into  any  order  of  logic) 
my  view  was  clouded  and  perplexed  by  the  general  confusion. 
A  few  days  previously,  it  seemed  that  the  enemy  had  aban- 
doned his  attack  upon  the  coast-line  and  the  country  between 
Dixmude  and  Nicuport.  There  was  a  strange  silence  behind 
the  mists,  but  our  aeroplanes,   reconnoitering  the  enemy's 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      229 

lines,  were  able  to  see  movements  of  troops  drifting  south- 
wards towards  the  region  round  Ypres. 

Now,  there  was  an  awakening  of  guns  in  places  from  which 
they  seemed  to  be  withdrawn.  Dixmudc,  quiet  in  its  ruins, 
trembled  again,  and  crumbled  a  little  more,  under  the  vibra- 
tion of  the  enemy's  shells,  firing  at  long  range  towards  the 
Franco-Belgian  troops. 

Here  and  there,  near  Pervyse  and  Ramscapelle,  guns,  not 
3'et  located,  fired  "  pot  shots  "  on  the  chance  of  killing  some- 
thing —  soldiers  or  civilians,  or  the  wounded  on  their 
stretchers. 

Several  of  them  came  into  Furnes,  bursting  quite  close  to 
the  convent,  and  one  smashed  into  the  Hotel  de  la  Nolale  Rose, 
going  straight  down  a  long  corridor  and  then  making  a  great 
hole  in  a  bedroom  wall.  Some  of  the  officers  of  the  Belgian 
Staff  were  in  the  room  downstairs,  but  not  a  soul  was  hurt. 

French  and  Belgian  patrols  thrusting  forward  cautiously 
found  themselves  under  rifle  fire  from  the  enemy's  trenches 
which  had  previously  appeared  abandoned.  Something  like 
an  offensive  developed  again,  and  it  was  an  unpleasant  sur- 
prise when  Dixmude  was  retaken  by  the  Germans. 

As  a  town  its  possession  was  not  of  priceless  value  to  the 
enemy.  They  had  retaken  a  pitiful  ruin,  many  streets  of 
skeleton  houses  filled  with  burned-out  ashes,  a  town  hall  with 
gaping  holes  in  its  roof,  an  archway  which  thrust  up  from  a 
wreck  of  pillars  like  a  gaunt  rib,  and  a  litter  of  broken  glass, 
bricks  and  decomposed  bodies. 

If  they  had  any  pride  in  the  capture  it  was  the  complete- 
ness of  their  destruction  of  this  fine  old  Flemish  town. 

But  it  was  a  disagreeable  thing  that  the  enemy,  who  had 
been  thrust  back  from  this  place  and  the  surrounding  neigh- 
borhood, and  who  had  abandoned  their  attack  for  a  time 
in  this  region,  should  have  made  such  a  sudden  hark -back  in 
sufficient  strength  to  regain  ground  which  was  won  by  the 
Belgian  and  French  at  the  cost  of  many  thousands  of  dead 
and  wounded. 


230  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

The  renewed  attack  was  to  call  off  some  of  the  allied 
troops  from  the  lines  round  Ypres,  and  was  a  part  of  the 
general  shock  of  the  offensive  all  along  the  German  line  in 
order  to  test  once  more  the  weakest  point  of  the  Allies' 
strength  through  which  to  force  a  way. 

The  character  of  the  fighting  in  this  part  of  Flanders 
entered  into  the  monotone  of  the  winter  campaign  and, 
though  the  censorship  was  blamed  for  scarcity  of  news,  there 
was  reall}-^  nothing  to  conceal  in  the  way  of  heroic  charges  by 
cavalry,  dashing  bayonet  attacks,  or  rapid  counter-move- 
ments by  infantry  in  mass.  Such  things  for  which  public 
imagination  craved  were  not  happening. 

What  did  happen  was  a  howling  gale  shrieking  across  the 
dunes,  and  swirling  up  the  sands  into  blinding  clouds,  and 
tearing  across  the  flat  marshlands  as  though  all  the  in- 
visible gods  of  the  old  ghost  world  were  racing  in  their 
chariots. 

In  the  trenches  along  the  Yser  men  crouched  down  close 
to  the  moist  mud  to  shelter  themselves  from  a  wind  which  was 
harder  to  dodge  than  shrapnel  shells.  It  lashed  them  with  a 
fierce  cruelty.  In  spite  of  all  the  woolen  comforters  and 
knitted  vests  made  by  women's  hands  at  home,  the  wind  found 
its  way  through  to  the  bones  and  marrow  of  the  soldiers  so 
that  they  were  numbed.  At  night  it  was  an  agony  of  cold, 
preventing  sleep,  even  if  men  could  sleep  while  shells  were 
searching  for  them  with  a  cry  of  death. 

The  gunners  dug  pits  for  themselves,  and  w^hen  they 
ceased  fire  for  a  time  crawled  to  shelter,  smoking  through 
little  outlets  in  the  damp  blankets  in  which  they  had  wrapped 
their  heads  and  shoulders.  They  tied  bundles  of  straw  round 
their  legs  to  keep  out  the  cold  and  packed  old  newspapers 
inside  their  chests  as  breast-plates,  and  tried  to  keep  them- 
selves warm,  at  least  in  imagination. 

There  was  no  battlefield  in  the  old  idea  of  the  word. 
How  often  must  one  say  this  to  people  at  home  who  think 
that  a  modern  army  is  encamped  in  the  fields  with  bivouac 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      231 

fires  and  bell  tents?  The  battle  was  spread  over  a  wide 
area  of  villages  and  broken  towns  and  shattered  farmhouses, 
and  neat  little  homesteads  yet  untouched  by  fire  or  shell. 
The  open  roads  were  merely  highways  between  these  points 
of  shelter,  in  which  great  bodies  of  troops  were  huddled  — 
the  internal  lines  of  communication  connecting  various 
parts  of  the  fighting  machine. 

It  was  rather  hot,  as  well  as  cold,  at  Oudecapelle  and 
Nieucapelle,  and  along  the  line  to  Styvekenskerke  and  Lom- 
bardtzyde.  The  enemy's  batteries  were  hard  at  work 
again  belching  out  an  inexhaustible  supply  of  shells.  Over 
there,  the  darkness  was  stabbed  by  red  flashes,  and  the  sky 
was  zigzagged  by  waves  of  vivid  splendor,  which  shone  for 
a  moment  upon  the  blanched  faces  of  men  who  waited  for 
death. 

Through  the  darkness,  along  the  roads,  infantry  tramped 
towards  the  lines  of  trenches,  to  relieve  other  regiments  who 
had  endured  a  spell  in  them.  The}^  bent  their  heads  low, 
thrusting  forward  into  the  heart  of  the  gale,  which  tore  at 
the  blue  coats  of  these  Frenchmen  and  plucked  at  their  red 
trousers,  and  slashed  in  their  faces  with  cruel  whips.  Their 
side-arms  jingled  against  the  teeth  of  the  wind,  which  tried 
to  snatch  at  their  bayonets  and  to  drag  the  rifles  out  of  their 
grip.  They  never  raised  their  heads  to  glance  at  the  Red 
Cross  carts  coming  back. 

Some  of  the  French  officers,  tramping  by  the  side  of  their 
men,  shouted  through  the  swish  of  the  gale: 

"  Courage,  mes  petits  !  " 

*'  II  fait  mauvais  temps  pour  les   sales  Boches !  " 

In  cottage  parlors  near  the  fighting  lines  —  that  is  to 
say  in  the  zone  of  fire,  which  covered  many  villages  and 
farmsteads,  French  doctors,  buttoned  up  to  the  chin  in 
leather  coats,  bent  over  the  newest  batches  of  wounded. 

"  Shut  that  door !  Sacred  name  of  a  dog ;  keep  the  door 
shut !     Do    you    want    the    gale    to   blow    us    up    the    chim- 


ney 


?  " 


232  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

But  it  was  necessary  to  open  the  door  to  bring  in  another 
stretcher  where  a  man  lay  still. 

"  Pardon,  mon  capitaine,"  said  one  of  the  stretcher- 
bearers,  as  the  door  banged  to  with  a  frightful  clap. 

Yesterday  the  enemy  reoccupied  Dixmude. 

So  said  the  official  bulletin,  with  its  incomparable  brevity 
of  eloquence. 

For  a  time,  during  this  last  month  in  the  first  year  of  the 
war,  I  made  my  headquarters  at  Dunkirk,  where  without 
stirring  from  the  town  there  was  always  a  little  excitement 
to  be  had.  Almost  every  day,  for  instance,  a  German 
aeroplane  —  one  of  the  famous  Taube  flock  —  would  come 
and  drop  bombs  by  the  Town  Hall  or  the  harbor,  killing  a 
woman  or  two  and  a  child,  or  breaking  many  panes  of  glass, 
but  never  destroying  anything  of  military  importance  (for 
women  and  children  are  of  no  importance  in  time  of  war) 
although  down  by  the  docks  there  were  rich  stores  of  am- 
munition, petrol,  and  material  of  every  kind.  These  birds 
of  death  came  so  regularly  in  the  afternoon  that  the 
Dunquerquoises,  who  love  a  jest,  even  though  it  is  a  bloody 
one,  instead  of  saying  "  Trois  heures  et  demie,"  used  to  say, 
"  Taube  et  demie  "  and  know  the  time. 

There  was  a  window  in  Dunkirk  which  looked  upon  the 
chief  square.  In  the  center  of  the  square  is  the  statue  of 
Jean-Bart,  the  famous  captain  and  pirate  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  standing  in  his  sea-boots  (as  he  once  strode  into  the 
presence  of  the  Sun-King)  and  with  his  sword  raised  above 
his  great  plumed  hat.  I  stood  in  the  balcony  of  the  window 
looking  down  at  the  color  and  movement  of  the  life  below, 
and  thinking  at  odd  moments  —  the  thought  always  thrust 
beneath  the  surface  of  one's  musings  —  of  the  unceasing 
slaughter  of  the  war  not  very  far  away  across  the  Belgian 
frontier.  All  these  people  here  in  the  square  were  in  some 
way  busy  with  the  business  of  death.  They  were  crossing 
these  flagged  stones  on  the  way  to  the  shambles,  or  coming 
back  from  the  shell-stricken  towns,  la-bas,  as  the  place  of 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      233 

blood  is  called,  or  taking  out  new  loads  of  food  for  guns  and 
men,  or  bringing  in  reports  to  admirals  and  the  staff,  or 
going  to  churches  to  pray  for  men  who  have  done  these  jobs 
before,  and  now,  perhaps,  lie  still,  out  of  it. 

This  square  in  Dunkirk  contained  many  of  the  elements 
which  go  to  make  up  the" actions  and  reactions  of  this  war. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  a  clever  stage  manager  desiring  to  pre- 
sent to  his  audience  the  typical  characters  of  this  military 
drama  —  leaving  out  the  beastliness,  of  course  —  would 
probably  select  the  very  people  and  groups  upon  whom  I  was 
now  looking  down  from  the  window.  Motor-cars  came  whirl- 
ing up  with  French  staff  officers  in  dandy  uniforms.  In 
the  center,  just  below  the  statue  of  Jean-Bart,  was  an 
armored-car  which  a  Belgian  soldier,  Avith  a  white  rag  round 
his  head,  was  explaining  to  a  French  cuirassier  whose  long 
horse-hair  queue  fell  almost  to  his  waist  from  his  linen- 
covered  helmet.  Small  boys  mounted  the  step  and  peered 
into  the  wonder-box,  into  the  mysteries  of  this  neat  death- 
machine,  and  poked  grubby  fingers  into  bullet  holes  which 
had  scored  the  armor  plates.  Other  soldiers  —  Chasseurs 
Alpins  in  sky-blue  coats,  French  artillery  men  in  their  dark- 
blue  jackets,  Belgian  soldiers  wearing  shiny  top  hats  with 
eye-shades,  or  dinky  caps  with  gold  or  scarlet  tassels,  and 
English  Tommies  in  mud-colored  khaki  —  strolled  about  the 
car,  and  nodded  their  heads  towards  it  as  though  to  say 
"  that  has  killed  off  a  few  Germans,  by  the  look  of  it.  Better 
sport  than  trench  digging." 

The  noise  of  men's  voices  and  laughter  —  they  laugh  a 
good  deal  in  war  time,  outside  the  range  of  shells  —  came  up 
to  the  open  window ;  overpowered  now  and  then  by  the 
gurgles  and  squawks  of  motor-horns,  like  beasts  giving 
their  death  cries.  With  a  long  disintegrating  screech  there 
came  up  a  slate-gray  box  on  wheels.  It  made  a  semicircular 
sweep,  scattering  a  group  of  people,  and  two  young  gentle- 
men of  the  Royal  Naval  Air  Service  sprung  down  and  shouted 
"  What-ho ! "  very  cheerily  to  two  other  young  gentlemen 


234)  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

in  naval  uniforms  who  shouted  back  "  Cheer-o !  "  from  the 
table  under  my  balcony. 

I  knew  all  of  them,  especially  one  of  the  naval  airmen 
who  flies  what  he  calls  a  motor-bus  and  drops  bombs  with 
sea  curses  upon  the  heads  of  any  German  troops  he  can  find 
on  a  morning's  reconnaissance.  He  rubs  his  hand  at  the 
thought  that  he  has  "done  in"  quite  a  number  of  the 
"  German  blighters."  With  a  little  luck  he  hopes  to  nobble 
a  few  more  this  afternoon.  A  good  day's  work  like  this 
bucks  him  up  wonderfully,  he  says,  except  when  he  comes 
down  an  awful  whop  in  the  darned  old  motor-bus,  which  is 
all  right  while  she  keeps  going  but  no  bloomin'  use  at  all 
when  she  spreads  her  skirts  in  a  plowed  field  and  smashes  her 
new  set  of  stays.  Oh,  a  bad  old  vixen,  that  seaplane  of  his ! 
Wants  a  lot  of  coaxin'. 

A  battery  of  French  artillery  rattled  over  the  cobble- 
stones- The  wheels  were  caked  with  clay,  and  the  guns  were 
covered  with  a  gray  dust.  They  were  going  up  Dixmude 
way,  or  along  to  Ramscapelle.  The  men  sat  their  horses  as 
though  they  were  glued  to  the  saddles.  One  of  them  had  a 
loose  sleeve  pinned  across  his  chest,  but  a  strong  grip  on  his 
bridle  with  his  left  hand.  The  last  wheels  rattled  round  the 
corner,  and  a  little  pageant,  more  richly  colored,  came  across 
the  stage.  A  number  of  Algerian  Arabs  strode  through  the 
square,  with  a  long  swinging  gait.  They  were  wearing  blue 
turbans  above  the  flowing  white  "  haik  "  which  fell  back  upon 
their  shoulders,  and  the  white  burnous  which  reached  to  their 
ankles.  They  were  dark,  bearded  men ;  one  of  them  at  least 
with  the  noble  air  of  Othello,  the  Moor,  and  with  his  fine 
dignity. 

They  stared  up  at  the  statue  of  Jean-Bart,  and  asked 
a  few  questions  of  a  French  officer  who  walked  with  a  shorter 
step  beside  them.  It  seemed  to  impress  their  imagination, 
and  they  turned  to  look  back  at  that  figure  with  the  raised 
sword  and  the  plumed  hat.  Three  small  boys  ran  by  their 
side   and   held   out   grubby   little  hands,   which   the   Arabs 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      235 

shook,  with  smiles  that  softened  the  hard  outlines  of  their 
faces. 

Behind  them  a  cavalcade  rode  in.  They  were  Arab 
chiefs,  on  little  Algerian  horses,  with  beautifully  neat  and 
clean  limbs,  moving  with  the  grace  of  fallow  deer  across  the 
flagged  stones  of  Dunkirk.  The  bridles  glistened  and  tinkled 
with  silver  plates.  The  saddles  were  covered  with  em- 
broidered cloths.  The  East  came  riding  to  the  West. 
These  INIohammedans  make  a  religion  of  fighting.  It  has 
its  ritual  and  its  ceremony  —  even  though  shrapnel  makes 
such  a  nasty  mess  of  men. 

So  I  stood  looking  down  on  these  living  pictures  of  a 
city  in  the  war  zone.  But  now  and  again  I  glanced  back 
into  the  room  behind  the  window,  and  listened  to  the  scraps 
of  talk  which  came  from  the  lounge  and  the  scattered  chairs. 
There  was  a  queer  collection  of  people  in  this  room.  They, 
too,  had  some  kind  of  business  in  the  job  of  war,  either  to 
kill  or  to  cure.  Among  them  was  a  young  Belgian  lieutenant 
who  used  to  make  a  "  bag  "  of  the  Germans  he  killed  each 
day  with  his  mitrailleuse  until  the  numbers  bored  him  and 
he  lost  count.  Near  him  were  three  or  four  nurses  dis- 
cussing wounds  and  dying  wishes  and  the  tiresome  hours  of 
a  night  when  a  thousand  wounded  streamed  in  suddenly, 
just  as  they  were  hoping  for  a  quiet  cup  of  coffee.  A  young 
surgeon  spoke  some  words  which  I  heard  as  I  turned  my  head 
from  the  window. 

"  It's  the  frightful  senselessness  of  all  this  waste  of  life 
which  makes  one  sick  with  horror  .  .  ." 

Another  doctor  came  in  with  a  tale  from  Ypres,  where 
he  had  taken  his  ambulance  under  shell-fire. 

"  It's  monstrous,"  he  said,  "  all  the  red  tape !  Because 
I  belong  to  a  volunteer  ambulance  the  officers  wanted  to 
know  by  what  infernal  impudence  I  dared  to  touch  the 
wounded.  I  had  to  drive  forty  miles  to  get  official  per- 
mission, and  could  not  get  it  then.  .  .  .  And  the  wounded 
were  lying  about  everywhere,  and  it  was  utterly  impossible 


•736  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

to  cope  with  the  numbers  of  them.  .  .  ,  They  stand  on 
etiquette  when  men  are  crying  out  in  agony!  The  Prus- 
sian caste  isn't  worse  than  that." 

I  turned  and  looked  out  of  the  window  again.  But  I  saw 
nothing  of  the  crowd  below.  I  saw  only  a  great  tide  of 
blood  rising  higlier  and  higher,  and  I  heard,  not  the  squawk- 
ing of  motor-horns,  but  the  moans  of  men  in  innumerable 
sheds,  where  they  lie  on  straw  waiting  for  the  surgeon's 
knife  and  crying  out  for  morphia.  I  saw  and  heard,  because 
I  had  seen  and  heard  these  things  before  in  France  and 
Belgium. 

In  the  room  there  was  the  touch  of  quiet  fingers  on  a 
piano  not  too  bad.  It  was  the  music  of  deep,  soft  chords. 
A   woman's   voice   spoke   quickly,   excitedly. 

"  Oh !  some  one  can  play.  Ask  him  to  play !  It  seems 
a  thousand  years  since  I  heard  some  music.  I'm  thirsty 
for  it !  " 

A  friend  of  mine  who  had  struck  the  chords  while  standing 
before  the  piano,  sat  down,  and  smiled  a  little  over  the 
notes. 

"  What  shall  it  be  ?  "  he  asked,  and  then,  without  wait- 
ing for  the  answer,  played.  It  was  a  reverie  by  Chopin, 
I  think,  and  somehow  it  seemed  to  cleanse  our  souls  a  little 
of  things  seen  and  smelt.  It  was  so  pitiful  that  something 
broke  inside  my  heart  a  moment.  I  thought  of  the  last 
time  I  had  heard  some  music.  It  was  in  a  Flemish  cottage, 
where  a  young  lieutenant,  a  little  drunk,  sang  a  love-song 
among  his  comrades,  while  a  little  way  off  the  men  were  being 
maimed  and  killed  by  bursting  shells. 

The  music  stopped  with  a  slur  of  notes.  Somebody 
asked,  "What  was  that?" 

There  was  the  echo  of  a  dull  explosion  and  the  noise  of 
breaking  glass.  I  looked  out  into  the  square  again  from 
the  open  window  and  saw  people  running  in  all  directions. 

Presently  a  man  came  into  the  room  and  spoke  to  one 
of  the  doctors,  without  excitement. 


LAST     STAND     OF     BELGIANS      237 

"  Another  Taubc.  Three  bombs,  as  usual,  and  several 
people  wounded.  You'd  better  come.  It's  only  round  the 
corner." 

It  was  always  round  the  corner,  this  sudden  death.  Just 
a  step  or  two   from  any  window  of  war. 

Halfway  through  my  stay  at  Dunkirk  I  made  a  trip  to 
England  and  back,  getting  a  free  passage  in  the  Government 
ship  Invicta,  which  left  by  night  to  dodge  the  enemy's  sub- 
marines, risking  their  floating  mines.  It  gave  me  one 
picture  of  war  which  is  unforgettable.  We  were  a  death 
ship  that  night,  for  we  carried  the  body  of  a  naval  officer 
who  had  been  killed  on  one  of  the  monitors  which  I  had 
seen  in  action  several  times  off  Nieuport.  With  the  corpse 
came  also  several  seamen,  wounded  by  the  same  shell.  I 
did  not  see  any  of  them  until  the  Invicta  lay  alongside  the 
Prince  of  Wales  pier.  Then  a  party  of  marines  brought  up 
the  officer's  body  on  a  stretcher.  They  bungled  the  job 
horribly,  jamming  the  stretcher  poles  in  the  rails  of  the 
gangway,  and,  fancying  myself  an  expert  in  stretcher  work, 
for  I  had  had  a  little  practise,  I  gave  them  a  hand  and 
helped  to  carry  the  corpse  to  the  landing-stage.  It  was 
sewn  up  tightly  in  canvas,  exactly  like  a  piece  of  meat 
destined  for  Smithfield  market,  and  was  treated  with  no 
more  ceremony  than  such  a  parcel  by  the  porters  who  re- 
ceived it. 

"  Where  are  you  going  to  put  that,  Dick?  " 

"Oh,  stow  it  over  there.  Bill!" 

That  was  how  a  British  hero  made  his  home-coming. 

But  I  had  a  more  horrible  shock,  although  I  had  been 
accustomed  to  ugly  sights.  It  was  when  the  Avounded  sea- 
men came  up  from  below.  The  lamps  on  the  landing-stage, 
flickering  in  the  high  wind,  cast  their  white  light  upon 
half  a  dozen  men  walking  down  the  gangway  in  Indian 
file.  At  least  I  had  to  take  them  on  trust  as  men,  but  they 
looked  more  like  specters  who  had  risen  from  the  tomb,  or 
obscene  creatures  from  some  dreadful  underworld.     When 


«88  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

the  German  shell  had  burst  on  their  boat,  its  fragments  had 
scattered  upwards,  and  each  man  had  been  wounded  in  the 
face,  some  of  them  being  blinded  and  others  scarred  be- 
yond human  recognition.  Shrouded  in  ship's  blankets,  with 
their  heads  swathed  in  bandages,  their  faces  were  quite 
hidden  behind  masks  of  cotton  wool  coming  out  to  a  point 
like  beaks  and  bloody  at  the  tip.  I  shuddered  at  the  sight 
of  them,  and  walked  away,  cursing  the  war  and  all  its 
horrors. 

After  my  return  to  Dunkirk,  I  did  not  stay  very  long 
there.  There  was  a  hunt  for  correspondents,  and  my  name 
was  on  the  black  list  as  a  man  who  had  seen  too  much.  I 
found  it  wise  to  trek  southwards,  turning  my  back  on  Bel- 
gium, where  I  had  had  such  strange  adventures  in  the  war- 
zone.  The  war  had  settled  down  into  its  winter  campaign, 
utterly  dreary  and  almost  without  episodes  in  the  country 
round  Fumes.  But  I  had  seen  the  heroism  of  the  Belgian 
soldiers  In  their  last  stand  against  the  enemy  who  had  rav- 
aged their  little  kingdom,  and  as  long  as  life  lasts  the  mem- 
ory of  these  things  will  remain  to  me  like  a  tragic  song.  I 
had  been  sprinkled  with  the  blood  of  Belgian  soldiers,  and 
had  helped  to  carry  them,  wounded  and  dead.  I  am  proud 
of  that,  and  my  soul  salutes  the  spirit  of  those  gallant  men  — 
the  remnants  of  an  army  —  who,  without  much  help  from 
French  or  English,  stood  doggedly  in  their  last  ditches,  re- 
fusing to  surrender,  and  with  unconquerable  courage  until 
few  were  left,  holding  back  the  enemy  from  their  last  patch 
of  soil.     It  was  worth  the  risk  of  death  to  see  those  things. 


CHAPTER  VlII 

THE  SOUL  OF  PARIS 

1N[  the  beginning  of  the  war  it  seemed  as  though  the  soul 
had  gone  out  of  Paris  and  that  it  had  lost  all  its  life. 
I  have  already  described  those  days  of  mobilization 
when  an  enormous  number  of  young  men  were  suddenly 
called  to  the  colors  out  of  all  their  ways  of  civil  life,  and 
answered  that  summons  witliout  enthusiasm  for  war,  hating 
the  dreadful  prospect  of  it  and  cursing  the  nation  which  had 
forced  this  fate  upon  them.  That  first  mobilization  lasted 
for  twenty-one  days,  and  every  day  one  seemed  to  notice  the 
difference  in  the  streets,  the  gradual  thinning  of  the  crowds, 
the  absence  of  young  manhood,  the  larger  proportion  of 
women  and  old  fogies  among  those  who  remained.  The  life 
of  Paris  was  being  drained  of  its  best  blood  by  this  vampire, 
war.  In  the  Latin  Quarter  most  of  the  students  went  with' 
out  any  preliminary  demonstrations  in  the  Cafe  d'Harcourt, 
or  speeches  from  the  table  tops  in  the  cheaper  restaurants 
along  the  Boul'  Miche,  where  in  times  of  peace  any  political 
crisis  or  intellectual  drama  produces  a  flood  of  fantastic 
oratory  from  young  gentlemen  with  black  hair,  burning  eyes, 
and  dirty  finger-nails.  They  had  gone  away  silently,  with 
hasty  kisses  to  little  mistresses,  who  sobbed  their  hearts  out 
for  a  night  before  searching  for  any  lovers  who  might  be  left. 
In  all  the  streets  of  Paris  there  was  a  shutting  up  of 
shops.  Every  day  put  a  new  row  of  iron  curtains  between 
the  window  panes,  until  at  the  end  of  the  twelfth  day  the  city 
seemed  as  dismal  as  London  on  a  Sunday,  or  as  though  all 
the  shops  were  closed  for  a  public  funeral.     Scraps  of  paper 

were  pasted  on  the  barred-up  fronts. 

23d 


240  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

"  Le  magas'in  est  feme  a  cause  de  la  mobilisation.^' 
"  M.  Jean  Cochin  et  quatre  fils  sont  au  front  des  armees." 
*'  Toute  la  personelle  de  cet  etablissement  est  mobilisee" 

A  personal  incident  brought  the  significance  of  the  general 
mobilization  sharply  to  my  mind.  I  had  not  realized  till 
then  how  completely  the  business  of  Paris  would  be  brought 
to  a  standstill,  and  how  utterly  things  would  be  changed. 
Before  leaving  Paris  for  Nancy  and  the  eastern  frontier,  I 
left  a  portmanteau  and  a  rug  in  a  hotel  where  I  had  become 
friendly  with  the  manager  and  the  assistant  manager,  with 
the  hall  porter,  the  liftman,  and  the  valet  de  chambre.  I  had 
discussed  the  war  with  each  of  these  men  and  from  each  of 
them  had  heard  the  same  expressions  of  horror  and  dismay. 
The  hall  porter  was  a  good-humored  soul,  who  confided  to 
me  that  he  had  a  pretty  wife  and  a  new-born  babe,  who  recon- 
ciled him  to  the  disagreeable  side  of  a  life  as  the  servant  of 
any  stranger  who  might  come  to  the  hotel  with  a  bad  temper 
and  a  light  purse.  .  .  . 

On  coming  back  from  Nancy  I  went  to  reclaim  my  bag 
and  rug.  But  when  I  entered  the  hotel  something  seemed 
different.  At  first  I  could  not  quite  understand  this  differ- 
ence. It  seemed  to  me  for  a  moment  that  I  had  come  to  the 
wrong  place.  I  did  not  see  the  hall  porter  nor  the  man- 
ager and  assistant  manager.  There  was  only  a  sharp-fea- 
tured lady  sitting  at  the  desk  in  loneliness,  and  she  looked 
at  me,  as  I  stared  round  the  hall,  with  obvious  suspicion. 
Very  politely  I  asked  for  my  bag  and  rug,  but  the  lady's  air 
became  more  frigid  when  I  explained  that  I  had  lost  the 
cloak-room  ticket  and  could  not  remember  the  number  of  the 
room  I  had  occupied  a  few  days  before. 

*'  Perhaps  there  is  some  means  by  which  you  could  prove 
that  you  stayed  here?  "  said  the  lady. 

"  Certainly.  I  remember  the  hall  porter.  His  name  is 
Pierre,  and  he  comes  from  the  Midi." 

She  shook  her  head. 


THE     SOUL     OF     PARIS  241 

"  There  is  no  hall  porter,  Monsieur.     He  has  gone." 

"  And  then  the  valet  de  chambre.  His  name  is  Fran9ois. 
He  has  curly  hair  and  a  short  brown  mustache." 

The  lady  shook  her  head  in  a  most  decided  negative. 

"  The  present  valet  de  chambre  is  a  bald-headed  man,  and 
clean-shaven,  Monsieur.  It  must  have  been  another  hotel 
where  you  stayed." 

I  began  to  think  that  this  must  undoubtedly  be  the  case, 
and  yet  I  remembered  the  geography  of  the  hall,  and  the 
pattern  of  the  carpet,  and  the  picture  of  Mirabeau  in  the 
National  Assembly. 

Then  it  dawned  on  both  of  us. 

"Ah!  Monsieur  was  here  before  August  1.  Since  then 
every  one  is  mobilized.  I  am  the  manager's  wife,  Monsieur, 
and  my  husband  is  at  the  front,  and  we  have  hardly  any  staff 
here  now.     You  will  describe  the  shape  of  j'^our  bag.  .  .  ." 

The  French  Government  was  afraid  of  the  soul  of  Paris. 
Memories  of  the  Commune  haunted  the  minds  of  men  who 
did  not  understand  that  the  character  of  the  Parisian  has 
altered  somewhat  since  1870.  Ministers  of  France  who  had 
read  a  little  history,  were  terribly  afraid  that  out  of  the  soul 
of  Paris  would  come  turbulence  and  mob-passion,  crises  de 
nerfs,  rioting,  political  strife,  and  panics.  Paris  must  be 
handled  firmly,  sobered  down  by  every  possible  means,  kept 
from  the  knowledge  of  painful  facts,  spoon-fed  with  cheerful 
communiques  whatever  the  truth  might  be,  guarded  by  strong 
but  hidden  force,  ready  at  a  moment's  notice  to  smash  up  a 
procession,  to  arrest  agitators,  to  quell  a  rebellion,  and  to 
maintain  the  strictest  order. 

Quietly,  but  effectively.  General  Galieni,  the  military  gov- 
ernor of  "  the  entrenched  camp  of  Paris,"  as  it  was  called, 
proceeded  to  place  the  city  under  martial  law  in  order  to 
strangle  any  rebellious  spirit  which  might  be  lurking  in  its 
hiding  places.  Orders  and  regulations  were  issued  in  a  rapid 
volley  fire  which  left  Paris  w^ithout  any  of  its  old  life  or 
liberty.     The  terrasses  were  withdrawn  from  the  cafes.     No 


242  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

longer  could  the  philosophic  Parisian  sip  his  petit  verre  and 
watch  the  drama  of  the  boulevards  from  the  shady  side  of  a 
marble-topped  table.  He  must  sit  indoors  like  an  English- 
man, in  the  darkness  of  his  public-house,  as  though  ashamed 
of  drinking  in  the  open.  Absinthe  was  banned  by  a  thunder- 
stroke from  the  Invalides,  where  the  military  governor  had 
established  his  headquarters,  and  Parisians  who  had  acquired 
the  absinthe  habit  trembled  in  every  limb  at  this  judgment 
which  would  reduce  them  to  physical  and  moral  wrecks,  as 
creatures  of  the  drug  habit  suddenly  robbed  of  their  nerve- 
controlling  tabloids.  It  was  an  edict  welcomed  by  all  men  of 
self-control  who  knew  that  France  had  been  poisoned  by  this 
filthy  liquid,  but  they  too  became  a  little  pale  when  all  the 
cafes  of  Paris  were  closed  at  eight  o'clock. 

"  Sapristi !  Qu'est  qu'on  pent  faire  les  soirs?  On  ne  peut 
pas  dormir  tout  le  temps!  Et  la  guerre  durera  peut-etre 
trois  mois !  " 

To  close  the  cafes  at  eight  o'clock  seemed  a  tragic  inflic- 
tion to  the  true  Parisian,  for  whom  life  only  begins  after  that 
hour,  when  the  stupidity  of  the  day's  toil  is  finished  and  the 
mind  is  awakened  to  the  intellectual  interests  of  the  world,  in 
friendl}'  conversation,  in  philosophical  discussions,  in  heated 
arguments,  in  wit  and  satire.  How  then  could  they  follow 
the  war  and  understand  its  progress  if  the  cafes  were  closed 
at  eight  o'clock  ?  But  the  edict  was  given  and  Paris  obeyed, 
loyally  and  with  resignation. 

Other  edicts  followed,  or  arrived  simultaneously  like  a 
broadside  fired  into  the  life  of  the  city.  Public  processions 
"  with  whatever  patriotic  motive  "  were  sternly  prohibited. 
"  Purveyors  of  false  news,  or  of  news  likely  to  depress  the 
public  spirit  "  would  be  dealt  with  by  courts  martial  and 
punished  with  the  utmost  severity.  No  musical  instruments 
were  to  be  played  after  ten  o'clock  at  night,  and  orchestras 
were  prohibited  in  all  restaurants.  Oh,  Paris,  was  even  your 
laughter  to  be  abolished,  if  you  had  any  heart  for  laughter 
while  your  sons  were  dying  on  the  fields  of  battle? 


THE     SOUL     OF     PARIS  243 

The  newspaper  censors  had  put  a  strangle  grip  upon  the 
press,  not  only  upon  news  of  war  but  also  upon  expressions  of 
opinion.  Gustave  Hcrvc  signed  his  name  three  days  a  week 
to  blank  columns  of  extraordinary  eloquence.  Georges 
Clemenceau  had  a  series  of  striking  head-lines  which  had  been 
robbed  of  all  their  text.  The  intellectuals  of  Paris  might 
not  express  an  opinion  save  by  permission  of  the  military 
censors,  most  of  whom,  strangely  enough,  had  German  names. 
The  civil  police  under  direction  of  the  military  governor 
were  very  busy  in  Paris  during  the  early  days  of  the  war. 
Throughout  the  twenty-four  hours,  and  especially  in  the 
darkness  of  night,  the  streets  were  patrolled  by  blue-capped 
men  on  bicycles,  who  rode,  four  by  four,  as  silently  as  shad- 
ows, through  every  quarter  of  the  city.  They  had  a  startling 
habit  of  surrounding  any  lonely  man  who  might  be  walking 
in  the  late  hours  and  interrogating  him  as  to  his  nationality, 
age,  and  business. 

Several  times  I  was  arrested  in  this  way  and  never  escaped 
the  little  frousse  which  came  to  me  when  these  dark  figures 
closed  upon  me,  as  they  leaped  from  their  bicycles  and  said 
with  grim  suspicion : 

"  Vos  papiers,  s'il  vous  plait !  " 

My  pockets  were  bulging  with  papers,  which  I  thrust  hur- 
riedly into  the  lantern-light  for  a  close-eyed  scrutiny. 

They  were  very  quick  to  follow  the  trail  of  a  stranger, 
and  there  was  no  sanctuary  in  Paris  in  which  he  might  evade 
them.  Five  minutes  after  calling  upon  a  friend  in  the  fifth 
floor  flat  of  an  old  mansion  at  the  end  of  a  courtyard  in  the 
Rue  de  Rivoli,  there  was  a  sharp  tap  at  his  door,  and  two 
men  in  civil  clothes  came  into  the  room,  with  that  sleuth- 
hound  look  which  belongs  to  stage,  and  French,  detectives. 
They  forgot  to  remove  their  bowler  hats,  which  seemed  to 
me  to  be  a  lamentable  violation  of  French  courtesy. 

"  Vos  papiers,  s'il  vous  plait !  " 

Again  I  produced  bundles  of  papers  —  permis  de  sejour 
in  Paris,  Amiens,  Rouen,  Orleans,  Le  Mans;  laisser-passer 


244  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

to  Boulogne,  Dieppe,  Havre,  Dunkirk,  Aire-sur-Lys,  Be- 
thune,  and  Hazebrouck;  British  passports  and  papers  vised 
by  French  consuls,  French  police,  French  generals,  French 
mayors,  and  French  stationmasters.  But  they  were  hardly 
satisfied.  One  man  with  an  ugly  bulge  in  his  side-pocket  — 
you  have  seen  at  Drury  Lane  how  quickly  the  revolver  comes 
out  ?  —  susffested  that  the  whole  collection  was  not  worth 
an  old  railway  ticket  because  I  had  failed  to  comply  with  the 
latest  regulation  regarding  a  photograph  on  the  permis  de 
sejour.  .  .  .  We  parted,  however,  with  mutual  confidence 
and  an  expression  of  satisfaction  in  the  entente  cordiale. 

One  scene  is  clear  cut  in  my  memory,  as  it  was  revealed 
in  a  narrow  street  of  Paris  where  a  corner  lantern  flung  its 
rays  down  upon  the  white  faces  of  two  men  and  two  women. 
It  was  midnight,  and  I  was  waiting  outside  the  door  of  a 
newspaper  office,  where  my  assistant  was  inquiring  for  the 
latest  bulletins  of  war.  For  some  minutes  I  watched  this 
little  group  with  an  intuition  that  tragedy  was  likely  to  leap 
out  upon  them.  They  belonged  to  the  apache  class,  as  it 
was  easy  to  see  by  the  cut  of  the  men's  trousers  tucked  into 
their  boots,  with  a  sash  round  the  waist,  and  by  the  velvet 
bonnets  pulled  down  sideways  over  their  thin-featured  faces 
and  sharp  jaws.  The  women  had  shawls  over  their  heads 
and  high-heeled  shoes  under  their  skirts.  At  the  Alhambra 
in  London  the  audience  would  have  known  what  dance  to 
expect  when  such  a  group  had  slouched  into  the  glamour  of 
the  footlights.  They  were  doing  a  kind  of  slow  dance  now, 
though  without  any  music  except  that  of  women's  sobs  and 
a  man's  sibilant  curses.  The  younger  of  the  two  men  was 
horribly  drunk,  and  it  was  clear  that  the  others  were  trying 
to  drag  him  home  before  trouble  came.  They  swayed  with 
him  up  and  down,  picked  him  up  when  he  fell,  swiped  him  In 
the  face  when  he  tried  to  embrace  one  of  the  women,  and 
lurched  with  him  deeper  into  the  throat  of  the  alley.  Then 
suddenly  the  trouble  came.  Four  of  those  shadows  on  bi- 
cycles rode  out  of  the  darkness  and  closed  in. 


THE     SOUL     OF     PARIS  245 

As  sharp  and  distinct  as  pistol  shots  two  words  came  to 
my  ears  out  of  the  sudden  silence  and  stillness  which  had 
arrested  the  four  people: 

"  Vos  papiers !  " 

There  was  no  "  s'il  vous  plait  "  this  time. 

It  was  clear  that  one  at  least  of  the  men  —  I  guessed  it 
was  the  drunkard  —  had  no  papers  explaining  his  presence 
in  Paris,  and  that  he  was  one  of  the  embiisques  for  whom  the 
Military  Governor  was  searching  in  the  poorer  quarters  of 
the  city  (in  the  richer  quarters  there  was  not  such  a  sharp 
search  for  certain  young  gentlemen  of  good  family  who  had 
failed  to  answer  the  call  to  the  colors),  and  for  whom  there 
was  a  very  rapid  method  of  punishment  on  the  sunny  side 
of  a  white  wall.  Out  of  the  silence  of  that  night  came  shriek 
after  shriek.  The  two  women  abandoned  themselves  to  a 
wild  and  terror-stricken  grief.  One  of  them  flung  herself 
on  to  her  knees,  clutching  at  an  agent  de  police,  clasping  him 
with  piteous  and  pleading  hands,  until  he  jerked  her  away 
from  him.  Then  she  picked  herself  up  and  leaned  against  a 
wall,  moaning  and  wailing  like  a  wounded  animal.  The 
drunkard  was  sobered  enough  to  stand  upright  in  the  grasp 
of  two  policemen  while  the  third  searched  him.  By  the  light 
of  the  street  lamp  I  saw  his  blanched  face  and  sunken  eyes. 
Two  minutes  later  the  police  led  both  men  away,  leaving  the 
women  behind,  very  quiet  now,  sobbing  in  their  shawls. 

It  was  the  general  belief  in  Paris  that  many  apaches  were 
shot  pour  encourager  les  autres.  I  cannot  saj^  that  is  true 
—  the  police  of  Paris  keep  their  own  secrets  —  but  I  believe 
a  front  place  was  found  for  some  of  them  in  the  fighting 
lines.  Paris  lost  many  of  its  rebels,  who  will  never  reappear 
in  the  Place  Pigalle  and  the  Avenue  de  Clichy  on  moonless 
nights.  Poor  devils  of  misery !  They  did  but  make  war  on 
the  well-to-do,  and  with  less  deadly  methods,  as  a  rule,  than 
those  encouraged  in  greater  wars  when,  for  trade  interests 
also,  men  kill  each  other  with  explosive  bombs  and  wrap  each 
other's  bowels  round  their  bayonets  and  blow  up  whole  com- 


246  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

panics  of  men  in  trenches  which  have  been  sapped  so  skilfully 
that  at  the  word  "  Fire  "  no  pair  of  arms  or  legs  remains  to 
a  single  body  and  God  Himself  would  not  know  His  handi- 
work. 

For  several  months  there  was  a  spy  mania  in  Paris  and 
the  police,  acting  under  military  orders,  showed  considerable 
activity  in  "  Boche  "  hunting.  It  was  a  forai  of  chase  which 
turned  me  a  little  sick  when  I  saw  the  captured  prey,  just  as 
I  used  to  turn  sick  as  a  boy  when  I  saw  a  rat  caught  in  a  trap 
and  handed  over  to  the  dogs,  or  any  other  animal  run  to 
earth.  All  my  instincts  made  me  hope  for  the  escape  of  the 
poor  beast,  vermin  though  it  might  be. 

One  day  as  I  was  sitting  in  the  Cafe  Napolitain  on  one  of 
my  brief  excursions  to  Paris  from  the  turmoil  in  the  wake  of 
war,  I  heard  shouts  and  saw  a  crowd  of  people  rushing 
towards  a  motor-car  coming  down  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens. 
One  word  was  repeated  with  a  long-drawn  sibilance : 

"  Espion !     Espion !  " 

The  spy  was  between  two  agents  de  police.  He  was  bound 
with  cords  and  his  collar  had  been  torn  off,  so  that  his  neck 
was  bare,  like  a  man  ready  for  the  guillotine.  Somehow,  the 
look  of  the  man  reminded  me  in  a  flash  of  those  old  scenes 
in  the  French  Revolution,  when  a  French  aristocrat  was 
taken  in  a  tumbril  through  the  streets  of  Paris.  He  was 
a  young  man  with  a  handsome,  clear-cut  face,  and  though 
he  was  very  white  except  where  a  trickle  of  blood  ran  down 
his  cheek  from  a  gash  on  his  forehead,  he  smiled  disdainfully 
with  a  proud  curl  of  the  lip.  He  knew  he  was  going  to  his 
death,  but  he  had  taken  the  risk  of  that  when  he  stayed  in 
Paris  for  the  sake  of  his  country.  A  German  spy!  Yes, 
but  a  brave  man  who  went  rather  well  to  his  death  through 
the  sunlit  streets  of  Paris,  with  the  angry  murmurs  of  a 
crowd  rising  in  waves  about  him. 

On  the  same  night  I  saw  another  episode  of  this  spy-hunt- 
ing period,  and  it  was  more  curious.  It  happened  in  a  fa- 
mous restaurant  not  far  from  the  Comedie  Fran9aise,  where 


THE     SOUL     OF     PARIS  247 

a  number  of  French  soldiers  in  a  variety  of  uniforms  dined 
with  their  ladies  before  going  to  the  front  after  a  day's  leave 
from  the  fighting  lines.  Suddenly,  into  the  buzz  of  voices 
and  above  the  tinkle  of  glasses  and  coffee-cups  one  voice 
spoke  in  a  formal  way,  with  clear,  deliberate  words.  I  saw 
that  it  was  the  manager  of  the  restaurant  addressing  his 
clients. 

"Messieurs  et  Mesdames  —  My  fellow-manager  has  just 
been  arrested  on  a  charge  of  espionage.  I  have  been  forbid- 
den to  speak  more  than  these  few  words,  to  express  my  per- 
sonal regret  that  I  am  unable  to  give  my  personal  attention 
to  your  needs  and  pleasure." 

With  a  bow  this  typical  French  "  patron  " —  surely  not  a 
German  spy !  —  turned  away  and  retreated  from  the  room. 
A  look  of  surprise  passed  over  the  faces  of  the  French  sol- 
diers. The  ladies  raised  their  penciled  eyebrows,  and  then 
—  so  quickly  docs  this  drama  of  war  stale  after  its  first  ex- 
perience —  continued  their  conversation  through  whiffs  of 
cigarette  smoke. 

But  it  was  not  of  German  spies  that  the  French  Govern- 
ment was  most  afraid.  Ti'uth  to  tell,  Paris  was  thronged 
with  Germans,  naturalized  a  week  or  two  before  the  war  and 
by  some  means  or  other  on  the  best  of  terms  with  the  police 
authorities,  in  spite  of  spy-hunts  and  spy-mania,  which  some- 
times endangered  the  liberty  of  innocent  Englishmen,  and 
Americans  more  or  less  innocent.  It  was  only  an  accident 
which  led  to  the  arrest  of  a  well-known  milliner  whose  after- 
noon-tea parties  among  her  mannequins  were  attended  by 
many  Gennans  with  business  in  Paris  of  a  private  character. 
When  this  lady  covered  up  the  Teutonic  name  of  her  finn 
with  a  Red  Cross  flag  and  converted  her  showrooms  into  a 
hospital  ward,  excellently  supplied  except  with  wounded  men, 
the  police  did  not  inquire  into  the  case  until  a  political  scan- 
dal brought  it  into  the  limelight  of  publicity. 

The  French  Government  was  more  afraid  of  the  true  Pa- 
risians.    To  sober  them  down  in  case  their  spirit  might  lead 


248  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

to  trouble,  the  streets  of  Paris  were  kept  in  darkness  and  all 
places  of  amusement  were  closed  as  soon  as  war  was  declared. 
In  case  riots  should  break  forth  from  secret  lairs  of  revolu- 
tionar}"-  propaganda,  squadrons  of  Gardes  Republicains  pa- 
trolled the  city  by  day  and  night,  and  the  agents  de  police 
were  reenforced  by  fusiliers  marins  with  loaded  rifles,  who  — 
simple  fellows  as  they  are  —  could  hardly  direct  a  stranger 
to  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  or  find  their  own  way  to  the 
Place  de  la  Bastille. 

At  all  costs  Paris  was  not  to  learn  the  truth  about  the 
war  if  there  were  any  unpleasant  truths  to  tell.  For  Paris 
there  must  always  be  victories  and  no  defeats.  They  must 
not  even  know  that  in  war  time  there  were  wounded  men; 
otherwise  they  might  get  so  depressed  or  so  enraged  that 
(thought  the  French  Government)  there  might  be  the  old 
cry  of  "  Nous  sommes  trahis !  "  with  a  lopping  off  of  Minis- 
ters' heads  and  dreadful  orgies  in  which  the  streets  of  Paris 
would  run  red  with  blood.  This  reason  alone  —  so  utterly 
unreasonable,  as  we  now  know  —  may  explain  the  farcical 
situation  of  the  hospitals  in  Paris  during  the  first  two  months 
of  the  war.  Great  hotels  like  the  Astoria,  Claridge's,  and 
the  Majestic  had  been  turned  into  hospitals  magnificently 
equipped  and  over-staffed.  Nothing  that  money  could  buy 
was  left  unboiight,  so  that  these  great  palaces  might  be  fully 
provided  with  all  things  necessary  for  continual  streams  of 
wounded  men.  High  society  in  France  gave  away  its  wealth 
with  generous  enthusiasm.  Whatever  faults  they  might  have 
they  tried  to  wash  them  clean  by  charity,  full-hearted  and 
overflowing,  for  the  wounded  sons  of  France.  Great  ladies 
who  had  been  the  beauties  of  the  salons,  whose  gowns  had 
been  the  envy  of  their  circles,  took  off  their  silks  and  chiffons 
and  put  on  the  simple  dress  of  the  infirmiere  and  volunteered 
to  do  the  humblest  work,  the  dirty  work  of  kitchen-wenches 
and  scullery-girls  and  bedroom-maids,  so  that  their  hands 
might  help,  by  any  service,  the  men  who  had  fought  for 
France.     French  doctors,  keen  and  brilliant  men  who  hold 


THE     SOUL     OF     PARIS  249 

a  surgeon's  knife  with  a  fine  and  delicate  skill,  stood  in  readi- 
ness for  the  maimed  victims  of  the  war.  The  best  brains  of 
French  medical  science  were  mobilized  in  these  hospitals  of 
Paris.  But  the  wounded  did  not  come  to  Paris  until  the  war 
had  dragged  on  for  weeks.  After  the  battle  of  the  Marne, 
when  the  wounded  were  pouring  into  Orleans  and  other  towns 
at  the  rate  of  seven  thousand  a  day,  when  it  M'as  utterly  im- 
possible for  the  doctors  there  to  deal  with  all  that  tide  of 
agony,  and  when  the  condition  of  the  French  wounded  was 
a  scandal  to  the  name  of  a  civilized  country,  the  hospitals  of 
Paris  remained  empty,  or  with  a  few  lightly  wounded  men 
in  a  desert  of  beds.  Because  they  could  not  speak  French, 
perhaps,  these  rare  arrivals  were  mostly  Turcos  and  Sene- 
galese, so  that  when  they  awakened  in  these  wards  and  their 
eyes  rolled  round  upon  the  white  counterpanes,  the  exquisite 
flowers  and  the  painted  ceilings,  and  there  beheld  the  beauty 
of  women  bending  over  their  bedsides  —  women  whose  beauty 
was  famous  through  Europe  —  they  murmured  "  Allahu 
akbar  "  in  devout  ecstasy  and  believed  themselves  in  a  Mo- 
hammedan paradise. 

It  was  a  comedy  in  which  there  was  a  frightful  tragedy. 
The  doctors  and  surgeons  standing  by  these  empty  beds, 
wandering  through  operating-theaters  magnificently  ap- 
pointed, asked  God  why  their  hands  were  idle  when  so  many 
soldiers  of  France  were  dying  for  lack  of  help,  and  why  Paris, 
the  nerve-center  of  all  railway  lines,  so  close  to  the  front, 
where  the  fields  were  heaped  with  the  wreckage  of  the  war, 
should  be  a  world  away  from  any  work  of  rescue.  It  was 
the  same  old  strain  of  falsity  which  always  runs  through 
French  official  life.  "  Politics  !  "  said  the  doctors  of  Paris ; 
*'  those  cursed  politics  !  " 

But  it  was  fear  this  time.  The  Government  was  afraid 
of  Paris,  lest  it  should  lose  its  nerve,  and  so  all  trains  of 
wounded  were  diverted  from  the  capital,  wandering  on  long 
and  devious  journe^^s,  side-tracked  for  hours,  and  if  an}' 
ambulances  came  it  was  at  night,  when  they  glided  through 


250  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

back  streets  under  cover  of  darkness,  afraid  of  being  seen. 

They  need  not  have  feared,  those  Ministers  of  France. 
Paris  had  more  courage  than  some  of  them,  with  a  greater 
dignity  and  finer  faith.  When  the  French  Ministry  fled  to 
Bordeaux  without  having  warned  the  people  that  the  enemy 
was  at  their  gates,  Paris  remained  very  quiet  and  gave  no 
sign  of  wild  terror  or  of  panic-stricken  rage.  There  was  no 
political  cr}'  or  revolutionary  outburst.  No  mob  orator 
sprang  upon  a  cafe  chair  to  say  "  Nous  sommes  trahis !  " 
.  .  .  There  was  not  even  a  word  of  rebuke  for  those  who  had 
doctored  the  official  communiques  and  put  a  false  glamour  of 
hope  upon  hideous  facts.  Hurriedly  and  dejectedly  over  a 
million  people  of  Paris  fled  from  the  city,  now  that  the  Gov- 
ernment had  led  the  way  of  flight.  They  were  afraid,  and 
there  was  panic  in  their  exodus,  but  even  that  was  not  hys- 
terical, and  men  and  women  kept  their  heads,  though  they 
had  lost  their  hopes.  It  was  rare  to  see  a  weeping  woman. 
There  was  no  wailing  of  a  people  distraught.  Sadly  those 
fugitives  left  the  city  which  had  been  all  the  world  to  them, 
and  the  roads  to  the  south  were  black  with  their  multitudes, 
having  left  in  fear  but  full  of  courage  on  the  road,  dejected, 
but  even  then  finding  a  comedy  in  the  misery  of  it,  laughing 
—  as  most  French  women  will  laugh  in  the  hour  of  peril  — 
even  when  their  suffering  was  greatest  and  when  there  was  a 
heartache  in  their  humor. 

After  all  the  soul  of  Paris  did  not  die,  even  in  those  dark 
days  when  so  many  of  its  inhabitants  had  gone,  and  when, 
for  a  little  while,  it  seemed  a  deserted  city.  Many  thousands 
of  citizens  remained,  enough  to  make  a  great  population,  and 
although  for  a  day  or  two  they  kept  for  the  most  part  in- 
doors, under  the  shadow  of  a  fear  that  at  any  moment  they 
might  hear  the  first  shells  come  shrieking  overhead,  or  even 
the  clatter  of  German  cavalry,  they  quickly  resumed  the 
daily  routine  of  their  lives,  as  far  as  it  was  possible  at  such  a 
time.  The  fruit-  and  vegetable-stalls  along  the  Rue  St. 
Honore  were  thronged  as  usual  by  frugal  housewives  who 


THE     SOUL     OF     PARIS  251 

do  their  shopping  early,  and  down  by  Les  Halles,  to  which 
I  wended  my  way  through  the  older  streets  of  Paris,  to  note 
any  change  in  the  price  of  food,  there  were  the  usual  scenes 
of  bustling  activity  among  the  baskets  and  the  litter  of  the 
markets.  Only  a  man  who  knew  Paris  well  could  detect  a 
difference  in  the  early  morning  crowds  —  the  absence  of 
many  young  porters  who  used  to  carry  great  loads  on  their 
heads  before  quenching  their  thirst  at  the  Chien  Qui  Fume, 
and  the  presence  of  many  young  girls  of  the  midinette  class, 
who  in  normal  times  lie  later  in  bed  before  taking  the  metro 
to  their  shops. 

The  shops  were  closed  now.  Great  establishments  like  the 
Galeries  Lafayette  had  disbanded  their  armies  of  girls  and 
even  many  of  the  factories  in  the  outer  suburbs,  like  Charen- 
ton  and  La  Villette,  had  suspended  work,  because  their  me- 
chanics and  electricians  and  male  factory  hands  had  been 
mobilized  at  the  outset  of  the  war.  The  women  of  Paris 
were  plunged  into  dire  poverty,  and  thousands  of  them  into 
idleness,  which  makes  poverty  more  awful.  Even  now  I  can 
hardly  guess  how  many  of  these  women  lived  during  the  first 
months  of  the  war.  There  were  many  wives  who  had  been 
utterly  dependent  for  the  upkeep  of  their  little  homes  upon 
men  who  were  now  earning  a  sou  a  day  as  soldiers  of  France, 
with  glory  as  a  pourhoire.  So  many  old  mothers  had  been 
supported  by  the  devotion  of  sons  who  had  denied  themselves 
marriage,  children,  and  the  little  luxuries  of  life  in  order  that 
out  of  their  poor  wages  in  Government  offices  they  might 
keep  the  woman  to  whom  they  owed  their  being.  Always  the 
greater  part  of  the  people  of  Paris  lives  precariously  on  the 
thin  edge  of  a  limited  income,  stinting  and  scraping,  a  sou 
here,  a  sou  there,  to  balance  the  week's  accounts  and  eke  out 
a  little  of  that  joie  de  vivre,  which  to  every  Parisian  is  an 
essential  need.  Now  by  the  edict  of  war  all  life's  economies 
had  been  annihilated.  There  were  no  more  wages  out  of 
which  to  reckon  the  cost  of  an  extra  meal,  or  out  of  which 
to  squeeze  the  price  of  a  seat  at  a  Pathe  cinema.     Mothers 


1852  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

and  wives  and  mistresses  had  been  abandoned  to  the  chill  com- 
fort of  national  charity,  and  oh,  the  coldness  of  it! 

The  French  Goveniment  had  promised  to  give  an  allow- 
ance of  1  franc  25  centimes  a  day  to  the  women  who  were 
dependent  on  soldier  husbands.     Perhaps   it  is  possible  to 
live  on  a  shilling  a  day  in  Paris,  though,  by  Heaven,  I  should 
hate  to  do  it.     Nicely  administered  it  might  save  a  woman 
from  rapid  starvation  and  keep  her  thin  for  quite  a  time. 
But  even  this  measure  of  relief  was  difficult  to  get.     French 
officials   are  extraordinarily  punctilious  over  the  details  of 
their  work,  and  it  takes  them  a  long  time  to  organize  a  sys- 
tem  which   is   a  masterpiece  of  safeguards   and   regulations 
and  subordinate  clauses.     So  it  was  with  them  in  the  first 
weeks  of  the  war,  and  it  was  a  pitiable  thing  to  watch  the 
long  queues  of  women  waiting  patiently  outside  the  mairies, 
hour  after  hour  and  sometimes  day  after  day,  to  get  that 
one  franc  twenty-five  which  would  buy  their  children's  bread. 
Yet  the  patience  of  these  women  never  failed,  and  with  a 
resignation  which  had  something  divine  in  it,  they  excused 
the  delays,  the   official   deliberations,   the  infinite  vexations 
which  they  were  made  to  suffer,  by  that  phrase  which  has 
excused   everything   in   France :     "  C'est  la   guerre ! "     Be- 
cause it  was  war,  they  did  not  raise  their  voices  in  shrill  pro- 
test, or  wave  their  skinny  anns  at  imperturbable  men  who 
said,  "  Attendez,  s'il  vous  plait !  "  with  damnable  iteration, 
or  break  the  windows  of  Government  offices  in  Avhich  bewil- 
dering regulations  were  drawn  up  in  miles  of  red  tape. 

"  C'est  la  guerre !  "  and  the  women  of  Paris,  thinking  of 
their  men  at  the  front,  dedicated  themselves  to  suffering  and 
were  glad  of  their  very  hunger  pains,  so  that  they  might  share 
the  hardships  of  the  soldiers. 

By  good  chance,  a  number  of  large-hearted  men  and 
women,  more  representative  of  the  State  than  the  Ministry 
in  power,  because  they  had  long  records  of  public  ser\'ice 
and  united  all  phases  of  intellectual  and  religious  activity 
in  France,  organized  a  system  of  private  charity  to  supple- 


THE     SOUL     OF     PARIS  263 

ment  the  Government  doles,  and  under  the  title  of  the 
Secours  Nationale,  relieved  the  needs  of  the  destitute  with 
a  prompt  and  generous  charity  in  which  there  was  human 
love  beyond  the  skinflint  justice  of  the  State.  It  was  the 
Secours  Nationale  which  saved  Paris  in  those  early  days  from 
some  of  the  worst  miseries  of  the  war  and  softened  some  of 
the  inevitable  cruelties  which  it  inflicted  upon  the  women  and 
children.  Their  organization  of  ouvroirs,  or  workshops  for 
unemployed  girls,  where  a  franc  a  day  (not  much  for  a  long 
day's  labor,  yet  better  than  nothing  at  all)  saved  many  midi- 
nettes  from  sheer  starvation. 

There  were  hard  times  for  the  girls  who  had  not  been 
trained  to  needlework  or  to  the  ordinary  drudgeries  of  life, 
though  they  toil  hard  enough  in  their  own  professions.  To 
the  dancing-girls  of  Montmartre,  the  singing  girls  of  the 
cabarets,  and  the  love  girls  of  the  streets,  Paris  with  the 
Germans  at  its  gates  was  a  city  of  desolation,  so  cold  as  they 
wandered  with  questing  eyes  through  its  loneliness,  so  cruel 
to  those  women  of  whom  it  has  been  very  tolerant  in  days 
of  pleasure.  They  were  unnecessary  now  to  the  scheme  of 
things.  Their  merchandise  —  tripping  feet  and  rhythmic 
limbs,  shrill  laughter  and  roguish  eyes,  carmined  lips  and 
penciled  lashes,  singing  voices  and  cajoleries  —  had  no  more 
value,  because  war  had  taken  away  the  men  who  buy  these 
things,  and  the  market  was  closed.  These  commodities  of 
life  were  no  more  salable  than  paste  diamonds,  spangles, 
artificial  roses,  the  vanities  of  fashion  showrooms,  the  trinkets 
of  the  jeweler  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  and  the  sham  antiques 
in  the  Rue  Mazarin.  Young  men,  shells,  hay,  linen  for  band- 
ages, stretchers,  splints,  hypodermic  syringes  were  wanted 
in  enormous  quantities,  but  not  light  o'  loves,  with  cheap 
perfume  on  their  hair,  or  the  fairies  of  the  footlights  with  all 
the  latest  tango  steps.  The  dance  music  of  life  had  changed 
into  a  funeral  march,  and  the  alluring  rhythm  of  the  tango 
had  been  followed  by  the  steady  tramp  of  feet,  in  common 
time,  to  the  battlefields  of  France.     Virtue  might  have  hailed 


254  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

it  as  a  victory.  Raising  her  chaste  eyes,  she  might  have  cried 
out  a  prayer  of  thankfulness  that  Paris  had  been  cleansed 
of  all  its  vice,  and  that  war  had  purged  a  people  of  its  carnal 
weakness,  and  that  the  young  manhood  of  the  nation  had  been 
spiritualized  and  made  austere.  Yes,  it  was  true.  War  had 
captured  the  souls  and  bodies  of  men,  and  under  her  disci- 
pline of  blood  and  agony  men's  wayward  fancies,  the  seduc- 
tions of  the  flesh,  the  truancies  of  the  heart,  were  tamed  and 
leashed. 

Yet  a  Christian  soul  may  pity  those  poor  butterflies  of 
life  who  had  been  broken  on  the  wheels  of  war.  I  pitied 
them,  unashamed  of  this  emotion,  when  I  saw  some  of  them 
flitting  through  the  streets  of  Paris  on  that  September  eve 
when  the  city  was  very  quiet,  expecting  capture,  and  after- 
wards through  the  long,  weary  weeks  of  war.  They  had  a 
scared  look,  like  pretty  beasts  caught  in  a  trap.  They  had 
hungry  eyes,  filled  Avith  an  enormous  wistfulness.  Their 
faces  were  blanched,  because  rouge  was  dear  when  food  had 
to  be  bought  without  an  income,  and  their  lips  had  lost  their 
carmine  flush.  Outside  the  Taverne  Royale  one  day  two 
of  them  spoke  to  me  —  I  sat  scribbling  an  article  for  the 
censor  to  cut  out.  They  had  no  cajoleries,  none  of  the  little 
tricks  of  their  trade.  They  spoke  quite  quietly  and  gravely. 
"  Are  you  an  Englishman?  " 
«  Yes." 

"But  not  a  soldier?" 
"  No.     You  see  my  clothes  !  " 

"  Have  you  come  to  Paris  for  pleasure?     That  is  strange, 
for  now  there  is  nothing  doing  in  that  way." 

"  Non,  c'est  vrai.     II  n'y  a  rien  a  faire  dans  ce  genre." 
I  asked  them  how  they  lived  in  war  time. 
One  of  the  girls  —  she  had  a  pretty,  delicate  face  and  a 
serious  way  of  speech  —  smiled,  with  a  sigh  that  seemed  to 
come  from  her  little  high-heeled  boots. 

"  It   is  difficult  to  live.     I  was   a  singing  girl  at  Mont- 
martre.     My  lover  is  at  the  war.     There  is  no  one  left.     It  is 


THE     SOUL     OF     PARIS  255 

the  same  with  all  of  us.  In  a  little  while  we  shall  starve  to 
death.  Mais,  pourquoi  pas?  A  singing  girl's  death  does 
not  matter  to  France,  and  will  not  spoil  the  joy  of  her  vic- 
tory !  " 

She  lifted  a  glass  of  amer  picon  —  for  the  privilege  of 
hearing  the  truth  she  could  tell  me  I  was  pleased  to  pay  for 
it  —  and  said  in  a  kind  of  whisper,  "  Vive  la  France !  "  and 
then,  touching  her  glass  with  her  lips :  "  Vive  I'Angleterre !  " 

After  the  battle  of  the  Marne  the  old  vitality  of  Paris  was 
gradually  restored.  The  people  who  had  fled  by  hundreds 
of  thousands  dribbled  back  steadily  from  England  and 
provincial  towns  where  they  had  hated  their  exile  and  had 
been  ashamed  of  their  flight.  They  came  back  to  their  small 
flats  or  attic  rooms  rejoicing  to  find  all  safe  under  a  layer 
of  dust  —  shedding  tears,  some  of  them,  when  they  saw  the 
children's  toys,  which  had  been  left  in  a  litter  on  the  floor, 
and  the  open  piano  with  a  song  on  the  music-rack,  which  a 
girl  had  left  as  she  rose  in  the  middle  of  a  bar,  wavering  off 
into  a  cry  of  fear,  and  all  the  domestic  treasures  which  had 
been  gathered  through  a  life  of  toil  and  abandoned  —  for- 
ever it  seemed  —  when  the  enemy  was  reported  within  twenty 
miles  of  Paris  in  irresistible  strength.  The  city  had  been 
saved.  The  Germans  were  in  full  retreat.  The  great  shadow 
of  fear  had  been  lifted  and  the  joy  of  a  great  hope  thrilled 
through  the  soul  of  Paris,  in  spite  of  all  that  death  la-has, 
where  so  many  young  men  were  making  sacrifices  of  their 
lives  for  France. 

As  the  weeks  passed  the  streets  became  more  thronged, 
and  the  shops  began  to  reopen,  their  business  conducted  for 
the  most  part  by  women  and  old  people.  A  great  hostile 
army  was  entrenched  less  than  sixty  miles  away.  A  ceaseless 
battle,  always  threatening  the  roads  to  Paris,  from  Amiens 
and  Soissons,  Rheims  and  Vic-sur-Aisne,  was  raging  night 
and  day,  month  after  month.  But  for  the  moment  when  the 
enemy  retreated  to  the  Aisnc,  the  fear  which  had  been  like  a 
black  pall  over  the  spirit  of  Paris,  lifted  as  though  a  great 


256  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

wind  had  blown  it  away,  and  the  people  revealed  a  sane, 
strong  spirit  of  courage  and  confidence  and  patience,  amazing 
to  those  who  still  believed  in  the  frivolity  and  nervousness 
and  unsteady  emotionalism  of  the  Parisian  population. 

Yet  though  normal  life  was  outwardly  resumed  (inwardly 
all  things  had  changed),  it  was  impossible  to  forget  the  war 
or  to  thrust  it  away  from  one's  imagination  for  more  than 
half  an  hour  or  so  of  forgetfulness.  Those  crowds  in  the 
streets  contained  multitudes  of  soldiers  of  all  regiments  of 
France,  coming  and  going  between  the  base  depots  and  the 
long  lines  of  the  front.  The  streets  were  splashed  with  the 
colors  of  all  those  uniforms  —  crimson  of  Zouaves,  azure  of 
chasseurs  d'Afriquc,  the  dark  blue  of  gunners,  marines. 
Figures  of  romance  walked  down  the  boulevards  and  took 
the  sun  in  the  gardens  of  the  Tuileries.  An  Arab  chief  in 
his  white  burnous  and  flowing  robes  padded  in  soft  shoes 
between  the  little  crowds  of  cocottes  who  smiled  into  his 
grave  face  with  its  dark  liquid  eyes  and  pointed  beard,  like 
Othello  the  Moor.  Senegalese  and  Turcos  with  rolling  eyes 
and  wreathed  smiles  sat  at  the  tables  in  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix, 
paying  extravagantly  for  their  fire-water,  and  exalted  by 
this  luxury  of  life  after  the  muddy  hell  of  the  trenches  and 
the  humid  climate  which  made  them  cough  consumptively 
between  their  gusts  of  laughter.  Here  and  there  a  strange 
uniform  of  unusual  gorgeousness  made  all  men  turn  their 
heads  with  a  "  Qui  est  9a?  "  such  as  the  full  dress  uniform  of 
a  dandy  flight  officer  of  cardinal  red  from  head  to  foot,  with 
a  golden  wing  on  his  sleeve.  The  airman  of  ordinary  grade 
had  no  such  magnificence,  yet  in  his  black  leather  jacket  and 
blue  breeches  above  long  boots  was  the  hero  of  the  streets 
and  might  claim  any  woman's  eyes,  because  he  belonged  to 
a  service  which  holds  the  great  romance  of  the  war,  risking 
his  life  day  after  day  on  that  miracle  of  flight  which  has  not 
yet  staled  in  the  imagination  of  the  crowd,  and  winging  his 
way  god-like  above  the  enemy's  lines.  In  the  roar  of  their 
pursuing  shells. 


THE     SOUL     OF     PARIS  257 

Khaki  came  to  Paris,  too,  and  although  it  was  worn  by 
many  who  did  not  hold  the  King's  commission  but  swaggered 
it  as  something  in  the  Red  Cross  —  God  knows  what !  —  the 
drab  of  its  color  gave  a  thrill  to  all  those  people  of  Paris 
who,  at  least  in  the  first  months  of  the  war,  Avere  stirred  with 
an  immense  sentiment  of  gratitude  because  England  had  come 
to  the  rescue  in  her  hour  of  need,  and  had  given  her  blood 
generously  to  France,  and  had  cemented  the  entente  cordiale 
with  deathless  tics  of  comradeship. 

"  Comme  ils  sont  chics,  ces  braves  Anglais  !  " 

They  did  not  soon  tire  of  expressing  their  admiration  for 
the  "  chic  "  style  of  our  young  officers,  so  neat  and  clean-cut 
and  workmanlike  with  their  brown  belts  and  brown  boots, 
and  khaki  rding  breeches. 

"Ulloh.  .  .  .  Engleesh  boy?     Ahlright,  eh ?  " 

The  butterfly  girls  hovered  about  them,  spread  their  wings 
before  those  young  officers  from  the  front  and  those  knights 
of  tlie  Red  Cross,  tempted  them  with  all  their  wiles,  and  led 
them,  too  many  of  them,  to  their  mistress  Circe,  who  put  her 
spell  upon  them. 

At  every  turn  in  the  street,  or  under  the  trees  of  Paris, 
some  queer  little  episode,  some  startling  figure  from  the  great 
drama  of  the  war  arrested  the  interest  of  a  wondering 
spectator.  A  glimpse  of  tragedy  made  one's  soul  shudder 
between  two  smiles  at  the  comedy  of  life.  Tears  and  laugh- 
ter chased  each  other  through  Paris  in  this  time  of  war. 

"  Coupe  gorge,  comme  9a.  Sale  boche,  mort.  Sa  tete, 
voyez.  Tombe  a  terre.  Sang!  Mains,  en  bain  de  sang. 
Comme  9a !  " 

So  the  Turco  spoke  under  the  statue  of  Aphrodite  in  the 
gardens  of  the  Tuileries  to  a  crowd  of  smiling  men  and  girls. 
He  had  a  German  officer's  helmet.  He  described  with  vivid 
and  disgusting  gestures  how  he  had  cut  off  the  man's  head  — 
he  clicked  his  tongue  to  give  the  sound  of  it  —  and  how  he 
had  bathed  his  hands  in  the  blood  of  his  enemy,  before  carry- 
ing this  trophy  to  his  trench.     He  held  out  his  hands,  staring 


258  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

at  them,  laughing  at  them  as  though  they  were  still  crimson 
with  German  blood.  ...  A  Frenchwoman  shivered  a  little 
and  turned  pale.  But  another  woman  laughed  —  an  old 
creature  with  toothless  gums  —  with  a  shrill,  harsh  note. 

"  Sale  race !  "  she  said ;  "  a  dirty  race  1  I  should  be  glad 
to  cut  a  German  throat !  " 

Outsides  the  Invalides,  motor-cars  were  always  arriving 
at  the  headquarters  of  General  Galieni.  French  staff  officers 
came  at  full  speed,  with  long  shrieks  on  their  motor-horns, 
and  little  crowds  gathered  round  the  cars  to  question  the 
drivers. 

"  Ca  marche,  la  guerre  ?     II  y  a  du  progres  ?  " 

British  officers  came  also,  with  despatches  from  head- 
quarters, and  two  soldiers  with  loaded  rifles  in  the  back  seats 
of  cars  that  had  been  riddled  with  bullets  and  pock-marked 
with  shrapnel. 

Two  of  these  men  told  their  tale  to  me.  They  had  left  the 
trenches  the  previous  night  to  come  on  a  special  mission  to 
Paris,  and  they  seemed  to  me  like  men  who  had  been  in  some 
torture  chamber  and  suffered  unforgettable  and  nameless 
horrors.  Splashed  with  mud,  their  faces  powdered  with  a 
grayish  clay  and  chilled  to  the  bone  by  the  sharp  shrewd  wind 
of  their  night  near  Soissons  and  the  motor  journey  to  Paris, 
they  could  hardly  stand,  and  trembled  and  spoke  with  chat- 
tering teeth. 

"  I  wouldn't  have  missed  it,"  said  one  of  them,  "  but  I  don't 
want  to  go  through  it  again.  It's  absolutely  infernal  in  those 
trenches,  and  the  enemy's  shell-fire  breaks  one's  nerves." 

They  were  not  ashamed  to  confess  the  terror  that  still 
shook  them,  and  wondered,  like  children,  at  the  luck  —  the 
miracle  of  luck  —  which  had  summoned  them  from  their  place 
in  the  firing  line  to  be  the  escort  of  an  officer  to  Paris,  with 
safe  seats  in  his  motor-car. 

For  several  weeks  of  the  autumn  while  the  British  were  at 
Soissons,  many  of  our  officers  and  men  came  into  Paris  like 
this,  on  special  missions  or  on  special  leave,  and  along  the 


THE     SOUL     OF     PARIS  259 

boulevards  one  heard  all  accents  of  the  English  tongue  from 
John  o'  Groats  to  Land's  End  and  from  Peckliam  Rye  to 
Hackney  Downs.  The  Kilties  were  the  wonder  of  Paris,  and 
their  knees  were  under  the  fire  of  a  multitude  of  eyes  as  they 
went  swinging  to  the  Gare  du  Nord.  The  shopgirls  of  Paris 
screamed  with  laughter  at  these  brawny  lads  in  "  jupes,"  and 
surrounded  them  with  shameless  mirth,  while  Jock  grinned 
from  ear  to  ear  and  Sandy,  more  bashful,  colored  to  the 
roots  of  his  fiery  hair.  Cigarettes  were  showered  into  the 
hands  of  these  soldier  lads.  They  could  get  drunk  for  noth- 
ing at  the  expense  of  English  residents  of  Paris  —  the 
jockeys  from  Chantilly,  the  bank  clerks  of  the  Imperial  Club, 
the  bar  loungers  of  the  St.  Petersbourg.  The  temptation 
was  not  resisted  with  the  courage  of  Christian  martyrs.  The 
Provost-Marshal  had  to  threaten  some  of  his  own  military 
police  with  the  terrors  of  court-martial. 

The  wounded  were  allowed  at  last  to  come  to  Paris  and 
the  surgeons  who  had  stood  with  idle  hands  found  more  than 
enough  work  to  do,  and  the  ladies  of  France  who  had  put  on 
nurses'  dresses  walked  very  softly  and  swiftly  through  long 
wards,  no  longer  thrilled  with  the  beautiful  sentiment  of 
smoothing  the  brows  of  handsome  young  soldiers,  but  thrilled 
by  the  desperate  need  of  service,  hard  and  ugly  and  terrible, 
among  those  poor  bloody  men,  agonizing  through  the  night, 
helpless  in  their  pain,  moaning  before  the  rescue  of  death.  The 
faint-hearted  among  these  women  fled  panic-stricken,  with 
blanched  faces,  to  Nice  and  Monte  Carlo  and  provincial  cha- 
teaux, where  they  played  with  less  unpleasant  work.  But  there 
were  not  many  like  that.  Most  of  them  stayed,  nerving  them- 
selves to  the  endurance  of  those  tragedies,  finding  in  the  weak- 
ness of  their  womanhood  a  strange  new  courage,  strong  as 
steel,  infinitely  patient,  full  of  pity  cleansed  of  all  false  senti- 
ment. Many  of  these  fine  ladies  of  France,  in  whose  veins 
ran  the  blood  of  women  who  had  gone  very  bravely  to  the 
guillotine,  were  animated  by  the  spirit  of  their  grandmothers 
and  by  the  ghosts  of  French  womanhood  throughout  the  his- 


260  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

tory  of  their  country,  from  Genevieve  to  Sister  Julie,  and 
putting  aside  the  frivolity  of  life  which  had  been  their  only 
purpose,  faced  the  filth  and  horrors  of  the  hospitals  without 
a  shudder  and  with  the  virtue  of  nursing  nuns. 

Into  the  streets  of  Paris,  therefore,  came  the  convalescents 
and  the  lightly  wounded,  and  one-armed  or  one-legged  officers 
or  simple  "  poilus  "  with  bandaged  heads  and  hands  could  be 
seen  in  any  restaurant  among  comrades  who  had  not  yet 
received  their  baptism  of  fire,  had  not  cried  "  Touche !  "  after 
the  bursting  of  a  German  shell. 

It  was  worth  while  to  spend  an  evening,  and  a  louis,  at 
Maxim's,  or  at  Henry's  to  see  the  company  that  came  to  dine 
there  when  the  German  army  was  still  entrenched  within  sixty 
miles  of  Paris.  They  were  not  crowded,  those  places  of  old 
delight,  and  the  gaiety  had  gone  from  them,  like  the  laughter 
of  fair  women  who  have  passed  beyond  the  river.  But 
through  the  swing  doors  came  two  by  two,  or  in  little  groups, 
enough  people  to  rob  these  lighted  rooms  of  loneliness.  Often 
it  was  the  woman  who  led  the  man,  lending  him  the  strength 
of  her  arm.  Yet  when  he  sat  at  table  —  this  young  officer 
of  the  Chasseurs  in  sky-blue  jacket,  or  this  wounded  Dragoon 
with  a  golden  casque  and  long  horse-hair  tail  —  hiding  an 
empty  sleeve  against  the  woman's  side,  or  concealing  the  loss 
of  a  leg  beneath  the  tablecloth,  it  was  wonderful  to  see  the 
smile  that  lit  up  his  face  and  the  absence  of  all  pain  in  it. 

"  Ah  !  comme  il  fait  bon  !  " 

I  heard  the  sigh  and  the  words  come  from  one  of  these 
soldiers  —  not  an  officer  but  a  fine  gentleman  in  his  private's 
uniform  —  as  he  looked  round  the  room  and  let  his  brown 
eyes  linger  on  the  candlelights  and  the  twinkling  glasses  and 
snow-white  tablecloths.  Out  of  the  mud  and  blood  of  the 
trenches,  with  only  the  loss  of  an  arm  or  a  leg,  he  had  come 
back  to  this  sanctuary  of  civilization  from  which  ugliness  is 
banished  and  all  grim  realities. 

So,  for  this  reason,  other  soldiers  came  on  brief  trips  to 
Paris  from  the  front.     They  desired  to  taste  the  fine  flavor 


THE     SOUL     OF     PARIS  261 

of  civilization  in  its  ultra-refinement,  to  dine  delicately,  to 
have  the  fragrance  of  flowers  about  them,  to  sit  in  the  glamour 
of  shaded  lights,  to  watch  a  woman's  beauty  through  the 
haze  of  cigarette-smoke,  and  to  listen  to  the  music  of  her 
voice.  There  was  always  a  woman  by  the  soldier's  side, 
propping  her  chin  in  her  hands  and  smiling  into  the  depths  of 
his  eyes.  For  the  soul  of  a  Frenchman  demands  the  help  of 
women,  and  the  love  of  women,  however  strong  his  courage 
or  his  self-reliance.  The  beauty  of  life  is  to  him  a  feminine 
thing,  holding  the  spirit  of  motherhood,  t-omantic  love  and 
comradeship  more  intimate  and  tender  than  between  man  and 
man.     Only  duty  is  masculine  and  hard.   .  .  . 

The  theaters  and  music-halls  of  Paris  opened  one  by  one 
in  the  autumn  of  the  first  year  of  war.  Some  of  the  dancing 
girls  and  the  singing  girls  found  their  old  places  behind  the 
footlights,  unless  they  had  coughed  their  lungs  away,  or 
grown  too  pinched  and  plain.  But  for  a  long  time  it  was 
impossible  to  recapture  the  old  spirit  of  these  haunts,  espe- 
cially in  the  music-halls,  where  ghosts  passed  in  the  darkness 
of  deserted  promenoirs,  and  where  a  chill  gave  one  goose- 
flesh  in  the  empty  stalls. 

Paris  was  half  ashamed  to  go  to  the  Folies  Bergeres  or 
the  Renaissance,  while  away  la-has  men  were  lying  on  the 
battlefields  or  croucliing  in  the'  trenches.  Only  when  the 
monotony  of  life  without  amusement  became  intolerable  to 
people  who  have  to  laugh  so  that  they  may  not  weep,  did 
they  wend  their  way  to  these  places  for  an  hour  or  two. 
Even  the  actors  and  actresses  and  playwrights  of  Paris  felt 
the  grim  presence  of  death  not  far  away.  The  old  Rabelai- 
sianism  was  toned  down  to  something  like  decency  and  at 
least  the  grosser  vulgarities  of  the  music-hall  stage  were 
banned  by  common  consent. 

The  little  indecencies,  the  sly  allusions,  the  candor  of 
French  comedy,  remained,  and  often  it  was  only  stupidity, 
which  made  one  laugh.  Nothing  on  earth  could  have  been 
more  ridiculous  than  the  little  lady  who  strutted  up  and  down 


262  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

the  stage  in  the  uniform  of  a  British  Tommy,  to  the  song  of 
"  Tipperary,"  which  she  rendered  as  a  sentimental  ballad, 
with  dramatic  action.  When  she  lay  down  on  her  front 
buttons  and  died  a  dreadful  death  from  German  bullets,  still 
singing  in  a  feeble  voice,  "  Good-by,  Piccadilly ;  farewell, 
Leicester  Square,"  there  were  British  officers  in  the  boxes  who 
laughed  until  they  wept,  to  the  great  astonishment  of  a 
French  audience,  who  saw  no  humor  in  the  exhibition. 

The  kilted  ladies  of  the  Olympia  would  have  brought  a 
blush  to  the  cheeks  of  the  most  brazen-faced  Jock  from  the 
slums  of  Glasgow,  though  they  were  received  with  great  ap- 
plause by  respectable  French  bourgeois  with  elderly  wives. 
And  yet  the  soul  of  Paris,  the  big  thing  in  its  soul,  the  spirit 
which  leaps  out  to  the  truth  and  beauty  of  life,  was  there  even 
in  Olympia,  among  the  women  with  the  roving  eyes,  and 
amidst  all  those  fooleries. 

Between  two  comic  "  turns  "  a  patriotic  song  would  come. 
They  were  not  songs  of  false  sentiment,  like  those  patriotic 
ballads  which  thrill  the  gods  in  London,  but  they  had  a 
strange  and  terrible  sincerity,  not  afraid  of  death  nor  of  the 
women's  broken  hearts,  nor  of  the  grim  realities  of  war,  but 
rising  to  the  heights  of  spiritual  beauty  in  their  cry  to  the 
courage  of  women  and  the  pity  of  God.  They  sang  of  the 
splendors  of  sacrifice  for  France  and  of  the  glory  of  that 
young  manhood  which  had  offered  its  blood  to  the  Flag. 
The  old  Roman  spirit  breathed  through  the  verses  of  these 
music-hall  songs,  written  perhaps  by  hungry  poets  au 
sixieme  Stage,  but  alight  with  a  little  flame  of  genius.  The 
women  who  sang  them  were  artists.  Every  gesture  was  a 
studied  thing.  Every  modulation  of  the  voice  was  the  result 
of  training  and  technique.  But  they  too  were  stirred  with  a 
real  emotion,  and  as  they  sang  something  would  change  the 
audience,  some  thrill  would  stir  them,  some  power,  of  old 
ideals,  of  traditions  strong  as  natural  instinct,  of  enthusiasm 
for  their  country  of  France,  for  whom  men  will  gladly  die 


THE     SOUL     OF     PARIS  263 

and  women  give  their  heart's  blood,  shook  them  and  set  them 
on  fire. 

The  people  of  Paris,  to  whom  music  is  a  necessity  of  life, 
were  not  altogether  starved,  though  orchestras  had  been  abol- 
ished in  the  restaurants.  One  day  a  well-known  voice,  terrific 
in  its  muscular  energy  and  emotional  fer\'or,  rose  like  a 
trumpet  call  in  a  quiet  courtyard  off  the  Rue  St.  Honore.  It 
was  the  voice  of  "  Bruyant  Alexandre  " — "  Noisy  Alexan- 
der " —  who  had  new  songs  to  sing  about  the  little  soldiers  of 
France  and  the  German  vulture  and  the  glory  of  the  Tricolor. 
Giving  part  of  his  proceeds  to  the  funds  for  the  wounded,  he 
went  from  courtyard  to  courtyard  —  one  could  trace  his 
progress  by  vibration  of  tremendous  sound  —  and  other 
musicians  followed  him,  so  that  often  when  I  came  up  the  Rue 
Royale  or  along  quiet  streets  between  the  boulevards,  I  was 
tempted  into  the  courts  by  the  tinkle  of  guitars  and  women's 
voices  singing  some  ballad  of  the  war  with  a  wonderful  spirit 
and  rhytlim  which  set  the  pulses  beating  at  a  quicker  pace. 
In  the  luncheon  hour  crowds  of  midinettes  surrounded  the 
singers,  joining  sometimes  in  the  choruses,  squealing  with 
laughter  at  jests  in  verse  not  to  be  translated  in  sober 
English  prose  and  finding  a  little  moisture  in  their  eyes  after 
a  song  of  sentiment  which  reminded  them  of  the  price  which 
must  be  paid  for  glory  by  young  men  for  whose  home-coming 
they  had  waited  through  the  winter  and  the  spring. 

No  German  soldier  came  through  the  gates  of  Paris,  and 
no  German  guns  smashed  a  way  through  the  outer  fortifica- 
tions. But  now  and  then  an  enemy  came  over  the  gates  and 
high  above  the  ramparts,  a  winged  messenger  of  death,  com- 
ing very  swiftly  through  the  sky,  killing  a  few  mortals  down 
below  and  then  retreating  into  the  hiding-places  behind  the 
clouds.  There  were  not  many  people  who  saw  the  "  Taube  " 
—  the  German  dove  —  make  its  swoop  and  hurl  its  fire-balls. 
There  was  just  a  speck  in  the  sky,  a  glint  of  metal,  and  the 
far-humming  of  an  aerial  engine.     Perhaps  it  was  a  French 


264)  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

aviator  coming  back  from  a  reconnaissance  over  the  enemy's 
lines  on  the  Aisne,  or  taking  a  joy  ride  over  Paris  to  stretch 
his  wings.  The  little  shopgirls  looked  up  and  thought  how 
fine  it  would  be  to  go  riding  with  him,  as  high  as  the  stars  — 
with  one  of  those  keen  profiled  men  who  have  such  roguish 
eyes  when  they  come  to  earth.  Frenchmen  strolling  down  the 
boulevards  glanced  skywards  and  smiled.  They  were  brave 
lads  who  defended  the  air  of  Paris.  No  Boche  would  dare  to 
poke  the  beak  of  his  engine  above  the  housetops.  .  .  .  But 
one  or  two  men  were  uneasy  and  stood  with  strained  eyes. 
There  was  something  peculiar  ab'out  the  cut  of  those  wings 
en  haut.  They  seemed  to  bend  back  at  the  tips,  unlike  a 
Bleriot,  with  its  straight  spread  of  canvas. 

"  Sapristi !  une  Taube !  .  .  .  Attention,  mon  vieux !  " 
In  some  side  street  of  Paris  a  hard  thing  hit  the  earth 
and  opened  it  with  a  crash.     A  woman  crossing  the  road  with 
a  little  girl  —  she  had  just  slipped  out  of  her  courtyard  to 
buy  some  milk  —  felt  the  ground  rise  up  and  hit  her  in  the 
face.     It  was  very  curious.      Such  a  thing  had  never  hap- 
pened to  her  before.      "  Suzette?  "     She  moaned  and  cried, 
"Suzette?"     .  .  .  But  Suzette  did  not  answer.     The  child 
was   lying   sideways,   with  her   face   against   the   curbstone. 
Her  white  frock  was  crimsoning  with  a  deep  and  spreading 
stain.      Something  had  happened  to  one  of  her  legs.     It  was 
broken  and  crumpled  up,  like  a  bird's  claw. 
"Suzette!     Ma  petite!  .  .  .  O,  mon  Dieu !  " 
A  policeman  was  bending  over  little  Suzette.     Then  he 
stood  straight  and  raised  a  clenched  fist  to  the  sky. 
"Sale  Boche!  .   .   .  Assassin!  .  .   .   Sale  cochon !  " 
People  came  running  up  the  street  and  out  of  the  court- 
yards.    An  ambulance  glided  SAviftly  through  the  crowd.     A 
little  girl  whose  name  was  Suzette  was  picked  up  from  the 
edge  of  the  curbstone  out  of  a  pool  of  blood.     Her  face  lay 
sideways  on  the  policeman's  shoulder,  as  white  as  a  sculptured 
angel  on  a  tombstone.     It  seemed  that  she  would  never  walk 
again,  this  little  Suzette,  whose  footsteps  had  gone  dancing 


THE     SOUL     OF     PARIS  265 

through  the  streets  of  Paris.  It  was  always  like  that  when  a 
Taube  came.  That  bird  of  death  chose  women  and  children 
as  its  prey,  and  Paris  cursed  the  cowards  who  made  war  on 
their   innocents. 

But  Paris  was  not  afraid.  The  women  did  not  stay  in- 
doors because  between  one  street  and  another  they  might  be 
struck  out  of  life,  without  a  second's  warning.  They  glanced 
up  to  the  sky  and  smiled  disdainfully.  They  were  glad  even 
that  a  Taube  should  come  now  and  then,  so  that  they,  the 
women  of  Paris,  might  run  some  risks  in  this  war  and  share 
its  perils  with  their  men,  who  every  day  in  the  trenches  la  has 
faced  death  for  the  sake  of  France.  "  Our  chance  of  death  is 
a  milHon  to  one,"  said  some  of  them.  "  We  should  be  poor 
things  to  take  fright  at  that !  " 

But  there  Avere  other  death  ships  that  might  come  sailing 
through  the  sky  on  a  fair  night  without  wind  or  moon.  The 
enemy  tried  to  affright  the  soul  of  Paris  by  warnings  of  the 
desti-uction  coming  to  them  with  a  fleet  of  Zeppelins.  But 
Paris  scoffed.  "  Je  m'en  fiche  de  vos  Zeppelins !  "  said  the 
spirit  of  Paris.  As  the  weeks  passed  by  and  the  months,  and 
still  no  Zeppelins  came,  the  menace  became  a  jest.  The  very 
word  Zeppelin  was  heard  with  hilarity.  There  were  comic 
articles  in  the  newspapers,  taunting  the  German  Count  who 
had  made  those  gas-bags.  There  were  also  serious  articles 
proving  the  impossibility  of  a  raid  by  airships.  They  would 
be  chased  by  French  aviators  as  soon  as  they  were  sighted. 
They  would  be  like  the  Spanish  Armada,  surrounded  by  the 
little  English  warships,  pouring  shot  and  shell  into  their  un- 
wieldy hulks.     Not  one  would  escape  down  the  wind. 

The  police  of  Paris,  more  nervous  than  the  public,  devised 
a  system  of  signals  if  Zeppelins  were  sighted.  There  were  to 
be  bugle  calls  throughout  the  city,  and  the  message  they  gave 
would  mean  "  lights  out !  "  in  every  part  of  Paris.  For  sev- 
eral nights  there  were  rehearsals  of  darkness,  without  the 
bugle  calls,  and  the  city  was  plunged  into  abysmal  gloom, 
through  which  people  who  had  been  dining  in  restaurants  lost 


266  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

themselves  in  familiar  streets  and  groped  their  way  with  little 
shouts  of  laughter  as  they  bumped  into  substantial  shadows. 

Paris  enjoyed  the  adventure,  the  thrill  of  romance  in  the 
mystery  of  darkness,  the  weird  beauty  of  it.  The  Tuileries 
gardens,  without  a  single  light  except  the  faint  gleams  of 
star-dust,  was  an  enchanted  place,  with  the  white  statues  of 
the  goddesses  very  vague  and  tremulous  in  the  shadow  world 
above  banks  of  invisible  flowers  which  drenched  the  still  air 
with  sweet  perfumes.  The  narrow  streets  were  black  tunnels 
into  which  Parisians  plunged  with  an  exquisite  frisson  of 
romantic  fear.  High  walls  of  darkness  closed  about  them, 
and  they  gazed  up  to  the  floor  of  Heaven  from  enormous 
gulfs.  A  man  on  a  balcony  au  cmquieme  was  smoking  a 
cigarette,  and  as  he  drew  the  light  made  a  little  beacon-flame, 
illuming  his  face  before  dying  out  and  leaving  a  blank  wall 
of  darkness.  Men  and  women  took  hands  like  little  children 
playing  a  game  of  bogey-man.  Lovers  kissed  each  other  in 
this  great  hiding-place  of  Paris,  where  no  prying  eyes  could 
see.  Women's  laughter,  whispers,  swift  scampers  of  feet, 
squeals  of  dismay  made  the  city  murmurous.  La  Ville 
Lumiere  was  extinguished  and  became  an  unlighted  sepulcher 
thronged  with  ghosts.  But  the  Zeppelins  had  not  come,  and 
in  the  morning  Paris  laughed  at  last  night's  jest  and  said, 
"  C'est  idiot !  " 

But  one  night  —  a  night  in  March  —  people  who  had 
stayed  up  late  by  their  firesides,  talking  of  their  sons  at  the 
front  or  dozing  over  the  Temps,  heard  a  queer  music  in  the 
streets  below,  like  the  horns  of  elfland  blowing.  It  came 
closer  and  louder,  with  a  strange  sing-song  note  in  which  there 
was  something  ominous. 

"  What  is  that?  "  said  a  man  sitting  up  in  an  easy-chair 
and  looking  towards  a  window  near  the  Boulevard  St. 
Germain. 

The  woman  opposite  stretched  herself  a  little  wearily. 

"  Some  drunken  soldier  with  a  bugle.  .  .  .  Good  gracious, 
it  is  one  o'clock  and  we  are  not  in  bed !  " 


THE     SOUL     OF     PARIS  267 

The  man  had  risen  from  his  chair  and  flung  the  window 
open. 

"  Listen !  .  .  .  They  were  to  blow  the  bugles  when  the 
Zeppelins  came.  .   .  .  Perhaps.  .  .   ." 

There  were  other  noises  rising  from  the  streets  of  Paris. 
Whistles  were  blowing,  very  faintly,  in  far  places.  Firemen's 
bells  were  ringing,  persistently. 

"  L'alerte  !  "  said  the  man.     "  The  Zeppelins  are  coming!  " 

The  lamp  at  the  street  corner  was  suddenly  extinguished, 
leaving  absolute  darkness. 

"  Fermez  vos  rideaux !  "  shouted  a  hoarse  voice. 

Footsteps  went  hurriedly  down  the  pavement  and  then 
were  silent. 

"It  is  nothing!"  said  the  woman;  "a  false  alarm!" 

"  Listen !  " 

Paris  was  very  quiet  now.  The  bugle  notes  were  as  faint 
as  far-off  bells  against  the  wind.  But  there  was  no  wind, 
and  the  air  was  still.  It  was  still  except  for  a  peculiar 
vibration,  a  low  humming  note,  like  a  great  bee  booming  over 
clover  fields.  It  became  louder  and  the  vibration  quickened, 
and  the  note  was  like  the  deep  stop  of  an  organ.  Tremen- 
dously sustained  was  the  voice  of  a  great  engine  up  in  the  sky, 
invisible.  Lights  were  searching  for  it  now.  Great  rays, 
like  immense  white  arms,  stretched  across  the  sky,  trying  to 
catch  that  flying  thing.  They  crossed  each  other,  flying 
backwards  and  forwards,  traveled  softly  and  cautiously 
across  the  dark  vault  as  though  groping  through  every  inch 
of  it  for  that  invisible  danger.  The  sound  of  guns  shocked 
into  the  silence,  with  dull  reports.  From  somewhere  in  Paris 
a  flame  shot  up,  revealing  in  a  quick  flash  groups  of  shadow 
figures  at  open  windows  and  on  flat  roofs. 

"  Look ! "  said  the  man  who  had  a  view  across  the  Boule- 
vard St.  Germain. 

The  woman  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"  Yes,  there  is  one  of  them !  .  .  .  And  another !  .  .  . 
How  fast  they  travel !  " 


268  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

There  was  a  black  smudge  in  the  sky,  blacker  than  the 
darkness.  It  moved  at  a  great  rate,  and  the  loud  vibrations 
followed  it.  For  a  moment  or  two,  touched  by  one  of  the 
long  rays  of  light  it  was  revealed  —  a  death  ship,  white  from 
stem  to  stern  and  crossing  the  sky  like  a  streak  of  lightning. 
It  went  into  the  darkness  again  and  its  passage  could  only  be 
seen  now  by  some  little  flames  which  seemed  to  fall  from  it. 
They  went  out  like  French  matches,  sputtering  before  they 
died. 

In  all  parts  of  Paris  there  were  thousands  of  people  watch- 
ing the  apparition  in  the  sky.  On  the  heights  of  the  Sacre 
Cceur  inhabitants  of  Montmartre  gathered  and  thrilled  to 
the  flashing  of  the  searchlights  and  the  bursting  of  shrapnel. 
The  bugle  calls  bidding  everj^body  stay  indoors  had  brought 
Paris  out  of  bed  and  out  of  doors.  The  most  bad-tempered 
people  in  the  city  were  those  who  had  slept  through  the 
alerte,  and  in  the  morning  received  the  news  with  an  incredu- 
lous "Quoi?  Non,  ce  n'est  pas  possible!  Les  Zeppelins 
sont  venus  ?     Je  n'ai  pas  entendu  le  moindre  bruit !  " 

Some  houses  were  smashed  in  the  outer  suburbs.  A  few 
people  had  been  wounded  in  their  beds.  Unexploded  bombs 
were  found  in  gardens  and  rubbish  heaps.  After  all,  the 
Zeppelin  raid  had  been  a  grotesque  failure  in  the  fine  art  of 
murder,  and  the  casualty  list  was  so  light  that  Paris  jeered  at 
the  death  ships  which  had  come  in  the  night.  Count  Zeppelin 
was  still  the  same  old  hlagueur.  His  precious  airships  were 
ridiculous. 

A  note  of  criticism  crept  into  the  newspapers  and  escaped 
the  censor.  Where  were  the  French  aviators  who  had  sworn 
to  guard  Paris  from  such  a  raid?  There  were  unpleasant 
rumors  that  these  adventurous  young  gentlemen  had  taken 
the  night  off"  with  the  ladies  of  their  hearts.  It  was  stated 
that  the  telephone  operator  who  ought  to  have  sent  the 
warning  to  them  was  also  making  la  bombe,  or  sleeping  away 
from  his  post.  It  was  beyond  a  doubt  that  certain  well- 
known   aviators  had  been  seen  in  Paris   restaurants   until 


THE     SOUL     OF     PARIS  269 

closing  time.  .  .  .  Criticism  was  killed  by  an  official  denial 
from  General  Galieni,  who  defended  those  young  gentlemen 
under  his  orders,  and  affirmed  that  each  man  was  at  the  post 
of  duty.  It  was  a  denial  which  caused  the  scandalmongers  to 
smile  as  inscrutably  as  Mona  Lisa. 

The  shadow  of  war  crept  through  every  kej^hole  in  Paris 
and  no  man  or  woman  shut  up  in  a  high  attic  with  some  idea 
or  passion  could  keep  out  the  evil  genii  which  dominated  the 
intellect  and  the  imagination,  and  put  its  cold  touch  upon  the 
senses,  through  that  winter  of  agony  when  the  best  blood  in 
France  slopped  into  the  water-logged  trenches  from  Flanders 
to  the  Argonne.  Yet  there  were  coteries  in  Paris  which 
thrust  the  Thing  away  from  them  as  much  as  possible,  and 
tried  to  pretend  that  art  was  still  alive,  and  that  philosophy 
was  untouched  by  these  brutalities. 

In  the  Restaurant  des  Beaux-Arts  and  other  boites  where 
men  of  ideas  pander  to  the  baser  appetites  for  1  franc  50 
{m7i  compris),  old  artists,  old  actors,  sculptors  whose  beards 
seemed  powdered  with  the  dust  of  their  ateliers,  and  littera- 
teurs who  will  write  you  a  sonnet  or  an  epitaph,  a  wedding 
speech,  or  a  political  manifesto  in  the  finest  style  of  French 
poesy  and  prose  (a  little  archaic  in  expression)  assembled 
nightly  just  as  in  the  days  of  peace.  Some  of  the  youngest 
faces  who  used  to  be  grouped  about  the  tables  had  gone,  and 
now  and  then  there  was  silence  for  a  second  as  one  of  the 
habitues  would  raise  his  glass  to  the  memory  of  a  soldier  of 
France  (called  to  the  colors  on  that  fatal  day  in  August)  who 
had  fallen  on  the  Field  of  Honor.  The  ghost  of  war  stalked 
even  into  the  Restaurant  des  Beaux-Arts,  but  his  presence 
was  ignored  as  much  as  might  be  by  these  long-haired 
Bohemians  with  grease-stained  clothes  and  unwashed  hands 
who  discussed  the  spirit  of  Greek  beauty,  the  essential  vicious- 
ness  of  women,  the  vulgarity  of  the  bourgeoisie,  the  prose  of 
Anatole  France,  the  humor  of  Rabelais  and  his  successors, 
and  other  eternal  controversies  with  a  pretext  of  their  old  fire. 
If  the  theme  of  war  slipped  in  it  was  discussed  with  an  intel- 


270  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

lectual  contempt,  and  loose-lipped  old  men  found  a  frightful 
mirth  in  the  cut-throat  exploits  of  Moroccans  and  Senegalese, 
in  the  bestial  orgies  of  drunken  Boches,  and  in  the  most 
revolting  horrors  of  bayonet  charges  and  the  corps-a-corps. 
It  was  as  though  they  wanted  to  reveal  the  savagery  of  war 
to  the  last  indescribable  madness  of  its  lust. 

"  Pah !  "  said  an  old  cabotin,  after  one  of  these  word- 
pictures.  "  This  war  is  the  last  spasm  of  the  world's  bar- 
barity. Human  nature  will  finish  with  it  this  time.  .  .  .  Let 
us  talk  of  the  women  we  have  loved.  I  knew  a  splendid  crea- 
ture once  —  she  had  golden  hair,  I  remember  — " 

One  of  these  shabby  old  gentlemen  touched  me  on  the  arm. 

*'  Would  Monsieur  care  to  have  a  little  music  ?  It  is  quite 
close  here,  and  very  beautiful.  It  helps  one  to  forget  the 
war,  and  all  its  misery." 

I  accepted  the  invitation.  I  was  more  thirsty  for  music 
than  for  vin  ordinaire  or  cordiale  Medoc.  Yet  I  did  not 
expect  very  much  round  the  comer  of  a  restaurant  frequented 
by  shabby  intellectuals.  .  .  .  That  was  my  English  stu- 
pidit3^ 

A  little  group  of  us  went  through  a  dark  courtyard  lit  by 
a  high  dim  lantern,  touching  a  sculptured  figure  in  a  far 
recess. 

*'  Pas  de  bruit,"  whispered  a  voice  through  the  gloom. 

Up  four  flights  of  wooden  stairs  we  came  to  the  door 
of  a  flat  which  was  opened  by  a  bearded  man  holding  a 
lamp. 

"  Soyez  les  bienvenus !  "  he  said,  with  a  strongly  foreign 
accent. 

It  was  queer,  the  contrast  between  the  beauty  of  his  salon 
into  which  we  went  and  the  crudeness  of  the  restaurant  from 
which  we  had  come.  It  was  a  long  room,  with  black  wall- 
paper, and  at  the  far  end  of  it  was  a  shaded  lamp  on  a  grand 
piano.  There  was  no  other  light,  and  the  faces  of  the  people 
in  the  room,  the  head  of  a  Greek  god  on  a  pedestal,  some 
little  sculptured  figures  on  an  oak  table,  and  some  portrait 


THE     SOUL     OF     PARIS  271 

studies  on  the  walls,  were  dim  and  vague  until  my  eyes  became 
accustomed  to  this  yellowish  twilight.  No  word  was  spoken 
as  we  entered,  and  took  a  chair  if  we  could  find  one.  None 
of  the  company  here  seemed  surprised  at  this  entry  of 
strangers  —  for  two  of  us  were  that  —  or  even  conscious  of 
it.  A  tall,  clean-shaven  young  man  with  a  fine,  grave  face  — 
•certainly  not  French  —  was  playing  the  violin,  superbly ;  I 
>could  not  see  the  man  at  the  piano  who  touched  the  keys  with 
such  tenderness.  Opposite  me  was  another  young  man,  with 
Ithe  curly  hair  and  long,  thin  face  of  a  Greek  faun  nursing  a 
■violoncello,  and  listening  with  a  dream  in  his  eyes.  A  woman 
with  the  beauty  of  some  northern  race  sat  in  an  oak  chair 
with  carved  arms,  which  she  clasped  tightly.  I  saw  the 
sparkle  of  a  ring  on  her  right  hand.  The  stone  had  caught 
a  ray  from  the  lamp  and  was  alive  with  light.  Other  people 
with  strange,  interesting  faces  were  grouped  about  this  salon, 
absorbed  in  that  music  of  the  violin,  which  played  something 
lof  spring,  so  lightly,  so  delicately,  that  our  spirit  danced  to 
iit,  and  joy  came  into  one's  senses  as  on  a  sunlit  day,  when 
the  wind  is  playing  above  fields  of  flowers.  Afterwards  the 
'celloist  drew  long,  deep  chords  from  his  great  instrument, 
and  his  thin  fingers  quivered  against  the  thick  strings,  and 
made  them  sing  grandly  and  nobly.  Then  the  man  at  the 
piano  played  alone,  after  five  minutes  of  silence,  in  which  a 
few  words  were  spoken,  about  some  theme  which  would  work 
out  with  strange  effects. 

"  I  will  try  it,"  said  the  pianist.  "  It  amuses  me  to  impro- 
vise.    If  it  would  not  worry  you  — " 

It  was  not  wearisome.  He  played  with  a  master-touch, 
and  the  room  was  filled  with  rushing  notes  and  crashing 
harmonies.  For  a  little  time  I  could  not  guess  the  meaning 
of  their  theme.  Then  suddenly  I  was  aware  of  it.  It  was 
the  tramp  of  anns,  the  roar  of  battle,  the  song  of  victory 
and  of  death.  Wailing  voices  came  across  fields  of  darkness, 
and  then,  with  the  dawn,  birds  sang,  while  the  dead  lay  still. 

The  musician  gave  a  queer  laugh. 


272  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

"Any  good?" 

"  C'est  la  guerre !  "  said  a  girl  by  my  side.  She  shivered 
a  little. 

They  were  Danes,  Norwegians,  and  Swedes  in  that  room, 
with  a  few  Parisians  among  them.  Students  to  whom  all 
life  is  expressed  in  music,  they  went  on  with  their  work  in 
spite  of  the  war.  But  war  had  touched  their  spirit,  too,  with 
its  great  tragedy,  and  found  expression  in  their  art.  It  was 
but  one  glimpse  behind  the  scenes  of  Paris,  in  time  of  war, 
and  in  thousands  of  other  rooms,  whose  window-curtains 
were  drawn  to  veil  their  light  from  hostile  aircraft,  the 
people  who  come  to  Paris  as  the  great  university  of  intellect 
and  emotion,  continued  their  studies  and  their  way  of  life, 
with  vibrations  of  fiddle-strings  and  scraping  of  palettes  and 
adventures  among  books. 

Even  the  artists'  clubs  had  not  all  closed  their  doors, 
though  so  many  young  painters  were  mixing  blood  with  mud 
and  watching  impressionistic  pictures  of  ruined  villages 
through  the  smoke  of  shells.  Through  cigarette  smoke  I 
gazed  at  the  oddest  crowd  in  one  of  these  clubs  off  the  Boule- 
vard St.  Germain.  Slavs  with  matted  hair,  American  girls 
in  Futurist  frocks,  Italians  like  figures  out  of  pre-Raphaelite 
frescoes,  men  with  monkey  faces  and  monkey  manners,  men 
with  the  faces  of  medieval  saints  a  little  debauched  by  devilish 
temptations,  filled  the  long  bare  room,  spoke  in  strange 
tongues  to  each  other,  and  made  love  passionately  in  the 
universal  language  and  in  dark  corners  provided  with  ragged 
divans.  A  dwarf  creature  perched  on  a  piano  stool  teased 
the  keys  of  an  untuned  piano  and  drew  forth  adorable  melody, 
skipping  the  broken  notes  with  great  agility.  ...  It  was  the 
same  old  Paris,  even  in  time  of  war. 

The  artists  of  neutral  countries  who  still  kept  to  their 
lodgings  in  the  Quartier  Latin  and  fanned  the  little  flame  of 
inspiration  which  kept  them  warm  though  fuel  is  dear,  could 
not  get  any  publicity  for  their  works.  There  was  no  autumn 
or  spring  salon  in  the  Palais  des  Beaux-Arts,  where  every 


THE     SOUL     OF     PARIS  273 

year  till  war  came  one  might  watch  the  progress  of  French 
art  according  to  the  latest  impulse  of  the  time  stirring  the 
emotions  of  men  and  women  who  claim  the  fullest  liberties  even 
for  their  foolishness.  War  had  killed  the  Cubists  and  many 
of  the  Futurists  had  gone  to  the  front  to  see  the  odd  effects 
of  scarlet  blood  on  green  grass.  The  Grand  Palais  was 
closed  to  the  public.  Yet  there  were  war  pictures  here, 
behind  closed  doors,  and  sculpture  stranger  than  anything 
conceived  by  Marinetti.  I  went  to  see  the  show,  and  when  I 
came  out  again  into  the  sunlight  of  the  gardens,  I  felt  very 
cold,  and  there  was  a  queer  trembling  in  my  limbs. 

The  living  pictures  and  the  moving  statuary  in  the  Grand 
Palais  exhibited  the  fine  arts  of  war  as  they  are  practised  by 
civilized  men  using  explosive  shells,  with  bombs,  shrapnel, 
hand-grenades,  mitrailleuses,  trench-mines,  and  other  ingenius 
instruments  by  which  the  ordinary  designs  of  God  may  be  re- 
drawn and  reshaped  to  suit  the  modern  tastes  of  men.  I  saw 
here  the  Spring  Exhibition  of  the  Great  War,  as  it  is  cata- 
logued by  surgeons,  doctors,  and  scientific  experts  in  wounds 
and  nerve  diseases. 

It  was  not  a  pretty  sight,  and  the  only  thing  that  redeemed 
its  ugliness  was  the  way  in  which  all  those  medical  men  were 
devoting  themselves  to  the  almost  hopeless  task  of  untwisting 
the  contorted  limbs  of  those  victims  of  the  war  spirit,  and 
restoring  the  shape  of  man  botched  by  the  artists  of  the  death 
machines. 

In  the  Great  Hall  through  which  in  the  days  of  peace 
pretty  women  used  to  wander  with  raised  eyebrows  and  little 
cries  of  "Ciel!"  (even  Frenchwomen  revolted  against  the 
most  advanced  among  the  Futurists),  there  was  a  number  of 
extraordinary  contrivances  of  a  mechanical  kind  which 
shocked  one's  imagination,  and  they  were  being  used  by 
French  soldiers  in  various  uniforms  and  of  various  grades, 
with  twisted  limbs,  and  paralj'tic  gestures.  One  young  man, 
who  might  have  been  a  cavalry  officer,  was  riding  a  queer 
bicycle  which  never  moved  off  its  pedestal,  though  its  wheels 


274i  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

revolved  to  the  efforts  of  its  rider.  He  pedaled  earnestly 
and  industriously,  though  obviously  his  legs  had  stiffened 
muscles,  so  that  every  movement  gave  him  pain.  Another 
man,  "  bearded  like  the  pard,"  sat  with  his  back  to  the  wall 
clutching  at  two  rings  suspended  from  a  machine  and  con- 
nected with  two  weights.  Monotonously  and  with  utterly 
expressionless  eyes,  he  raised  and  lowered  his  arms  a  few 
inches  or  so,  in  order  to  bring  back  their  vitality,  which  had 
been  destroyed  by  a  nervous  shock.  Many  wheels  were  turn- 
ing in  that  great  room  and  men  were  strapped  to  them,  as 
though  in  some  torture  chamber,  devilishly  contrived.  In 
this  place,  however,  the  work  was  to  defeat  the  cruelties  of 
War  the  Torturer,  after  it  had  done  its  worst  with  human 
flesh. 

The  worst  was  in  other  rooms,  where  poor  wrecks  of  men 
lay  face  downwards  in  hot-air  boxes,  where  they  stayed 
immovable  and  silent  as  though  in  their  coffins,  or  with  half 
their  bodies  submerged  in  electrolyzed  baths.  Nurses  were 
massaging  limbs  which  had  been  maimed  and  smashed  by 
shell-fire,  and  working  with  fine  and  delicate  patience  at  the 
rigid  fingers  of  soldiers,  some  of  whom  had  lost  their  other 
arms,  so  that  unless  they  could  use  their  last  remaining 
fingers,  three  or  four  to  a  hand,  they  would  be  useless  for  any 
work  in  the  world.  But  most  pitiable  of  all  were  the  long 
rows  of  the  paralyzed  and  the  blind,  who  lay  in  the  hospital 
ward,  motionless  and  sightless,  with  smashed  faces.  In  the 
Palace  of  Fine  Arts  this  statuary  might  have  made  the  stones 
weep. 

At  last  the  spring-song  sounded  through  the  streets  of 
Paris  with  a  pagan  joy. 

There  was  a  blue  sky  over  the  city  —  so  clear  and  cloudless 
that  if  any  Zeppelin  came  before  the  night,  it  would  have  been 
seen  a  mile  high,  as  a  silver  ship,  translucent  from  stem  to 
stern,  sailing  in  an  azure  sea.  One  would  not  be  scared  by 
one  of  these  death-ships  on  such  a  day  as  this,  nor  believe, 
until  the  crash  came,  that  it  would  drop  down  destruction 


THE     SOUL     OF     PARIS  275 

upon  this  dream  city,  all  agHtter  in  gold  and  white,  with  all 
its  towers  and  spires  clean-cut  against  the  sky. 

It  was  hard  to  think  of  death  and  war;  because  spring  had 
come  with  its  promise  of  life.  There  was  a  thrill  of  new 
vitality  throughout  the  city.  I  seemed  to  hear  the  sap  rising 
in  the  trees  along  the  boulevards.  Or  was  it  only  the  wind 
plucking  at  invisible  harp-strings,  or  visible  telephone  wires, 
and  playing  the  spring-song  in  Parisian  ears? 

In  the  Tuileries  gardens,  glancing  aslant  the  trees,  I  saw 
the  first  green  of  the  year,  as  the  buds  were  burgeoning  and 
breaking  into  tiny  leaves.  The  white  statues  of  goddesses  — 
a  little  crumbled  and  weather-stained  after  the  winter  — 
were  bathed  in  a  pale  sunshine.  Psyche  stretched  out  her 
arms,  still  half-asleep,  but  waking  at  the  call  of  spring. 
Pomona  offered  her  fruit  to  a  young  student,  who  gazed  at 
her  with  his  black  hat  pushed  to  the  back  of  his  pale  forehead. 
Womanhood,  with  all  her  beauty  carved  in  stone,  in  laughing 
and  tragic  moods,  in  the  first  grace  of  girlhood,  and  in  full 
maturity,  stood  poised  here  in  the  gardens  of  the  Tuileries, 
and  seemed  alive  and  vibrant  with  this  new  thrill  of  life  which 
was  pulsing  in  the  moist  earth  and  whispering  through  the 
trees,  because  spring  had  come  to  Paris. 

There  was  no  doubt  about  it.  The  flower  girls  who  had 
been  early  to  les  Halles  came  up  the  Rue  Royale  one  morning 
with  baskets  full  of  violets,  so  that  all  the  street  was  perfumed 
as  though  great  ladies  were  passing  and  wafting  scent  in 
their  wake.  Even  the  old  "  cocher  "  who  drove  me  down  the 
Rue  Cambon  had  put  on  a  new  white  hat.  He  had  heard 
the  glad  tidings,  this  old  wrinkled  man,  and  he  clacked  his 
whip  to  let  others  know,  and  gave  the  glad-eye  —  a  watery, 
wicked  old  eye  —  to  half  a  dozen  midinettes  who  came 
dancing  along  the  Rue  St.  Honore.  They  knew  without  his 
white  hat,  and  the  clack  of  his  whip.  The  ichor  of  the  air 
had  got  into  their  blood.  They  laughed  without  the  reason 
for  a  jest,  and  ran,  in  a  skipping  way,  because  there  was  the 
spring-song  in  their  feet. 


276  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

Along  the  Champs-Elysees  there  was  the  pathway  of  the 
sun.  Through  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  there  was  a  glamorous 
curtain  of  cloth  of  gold,  and  arrows  of  light  struck  and  broke 
upon  the  golden  figures  of  Alexander's  Bridge.  Looking 
back  I  saw  the  dome  of  the  Invalides  suspended  in  space,  like 
a  cloud  in  the  sky.  It  was  painted  over  to  baffle  the  way 
of  hostile  aircraft,  but  the  paint  was  wearing  off,  and  the 
gold  showed  through  again,  glinting  and  flashing  in  the  air- 
waves. 

The  Seine  was  like  molten  liquid  and  the  bridges  which  span 
it  a  dozen  times  or  more  between  Notre  Dame  and  the  Pont 
de  I'Alma  were  as  white  as  snow,  and  insubstantial  as  though 
they  bridged  the  gulfs  of  dreams.  Even  the  great  blocks  of 
stone  and  the  bulks  of  timber  which  lie  on  the  mud  banks 
below  the  Quai  d'Orsay  —  it  is  where  the  bodies  of  suicides 
float  up  and  bring  new  tenants  to  the  Morgue  —  were  touched 
with  the  beauty  of  this  lady  day,  and  invited  an  artist's 
brush. 

The  Eiff'el  Tower  hung  a  cobweb  in  the  sky.  Its  wires  had 
been  thrilling  to  the  secrets  of  war,  and  this  signal  station 
was  barricaded  so  that  no  citizens  might  go  near,  or  pass  the 
sentries  pacing  there  with  loaded  rifles.  But  now  it  was 
receiving  other  messages,  not  of  war.  The  wireless  operator, 
with  the  receiver  at  his  ears  must  have  heard  those  whispers 
coming  from  the  earth :  "  I  am  spring.  .  .  .  The  earth  is 
waking.  ...  I  am  coming  with  the  beauty  of  life.  ...  I  am 
gladness  and  youth.  .  .  ." 

Perhaps  even  the  sentry  pacing  up  and  down  the  wooden 
barricade  heard  the  approach  of  some  unseen  presence  when 
he  stood  still  that  morning  and  peered  through  the  morning 
sunlight.  "Halt!  who  goes  there?"  ...  "A  friend."  .  .  . 
"  Pass,  friend,  and  give  the  countersign." 

The  countersign  was  "  Spring,"  and  where  the  spirit  of  it 
stepped,  golden  crocuses  had  thrust  up  through  the  warming 
earth,  not  far  from  where,  a  night  or  two  before,  fire-balls 
dropped  from  a  hostile  air  craft. 


THE     SOUL     OF     PARIS  277 

Oh,  strange  and  tragic  spring,  of  this  year  1915!  Was 
it  possible  that,  while  Nature  was  preparing  her  beauty  for 
the  earth,  and  was  busy  in  the  ways  of  life,  men  should  be 
heaping  her  fields  with  death,  and  drenching  this  fair  earth 
with  blood? 

One  could  not  forget.  Even  in  Paris  away  from  the 
sound  of  the  guns  which  had  roared  in  my  ears  a  week  before, 
and  away  from  the  moan  of  the  wounded  which  had  made 
my  ears  ache  worse  than  the  noise  of  battle,  I  could  not 
forget  the  tragedy  of  all  this  death  which  was  being  piled  up 
under  the  blue  sky,  and  on  fields  all  astir  with  the  life  of  the 
year. 

In  the  Tuileries  gardens  the  buds  were  green.  But  there 
were  black  figures  below  them.  The  women  who  sat  there  all 
the  afternoon,  sewing  and  knitting,  or  with  idle  hands  in  their 
laps,  were  clothed  in  widows'  black.  I  glanced  into  the 
face  of  one  of  these  figures  as  I  passed.  She  was  quite  a 
girl  to  whom  the  spring-song  should  have  called  with  a  loud, 
clear  note  of  joy.  But  her  head  drooped  and  her  eyes  were 
steadfast  as  they  stared  at  the  pathway,  and  the  sunshine 
brought  no  color  into  her  white  cheeks.  .  .  .  She  shivered 
a  little,  and  pulled  her  crepe  veil  closer  about  her  face. 

Down  the  broad  pathway  between  the  white  statues  came 
a  procession  of  cripples.  They  wore  the  uniforms  of  the 
French  army,  and  were  mostly  young  men  in  the  prime  of 
life,  to  whom  also  the  spring  should  have  brought  a  sense 
of  vital  joy,  of  intense  and  energetic  life.  But  they  dragged 
between  their  crutches  while  their  lopped  limbs  hung  free. 
A  little  further  off  in  a  patch  of  sunshine  beyond  the  wall 
of  the  Jeu  de  Paumes,  sat  half  a  dozen  soldiers  of  France 
with  loose  sleeves  pinned  to  their  coats,  or  with  only  one 
leg  to  rest  upon  the  ground.  One  of  them  was  blind  and 
sat  there  with  his  face  to  the  sun,  staring  towards  the  foun- 
tain of  the  nymphs  with  sightless  eyes.  Those  six  comrades 
of  war  were  quite  silent,  and  did  not  "  fight  their  battles  o'er 
again."     Perhaps   they    were   sad  because   they   heard    the 


278  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

spring-song,  and  knew  that  they  could  never  step  out  again 
to  the  dance-tune  of  youth. 

And  yet,  strangely,  there  was  more  gladness  than  sadness 
in  Paris  now  that  spring  had  come,  in  spite  of  the  women  in 
black,  and  the  cripples  in  the  gardens.  Once  again  it 
brought  the  promise  of  life.  "  Now  that  the  spring  is  here," 
said  the  old  cab-driver  in  the  white  hat,  "  France  will  soon 
be  free  and  the  war  will  soon  be  over." 

This  hopefulness  that  the  fine  weather  would  end  the  war 
quickly  was  a  splendid  superstition  which  buoyed  up  many 
hearts  in  France.  Through  the  long,  wet  months  of  winter 
the  women  and  the  old  people  had  agonized  over  the  misery 
of  their  soldiers  in  the  trenches.  Now  that  the  earth  was 
drying  again,  and  the  rain  clouds  were  vanishing  behind  a 
blue  sky,  there  was  new  hope,  and  a  wonderful  optimism  in 
the  spirit  of  the  people.  "  The  spring  will  bring  victory  to 
France  "  was  an  article  of  faith  which  comforted  the  soul  of 
the  little  midinette  who  sang  on  her  way  to  the  Rue  Lafayette, 
and  the  French  soldier  who  found  a  wild  flower  growing  in 
his  trench. 

I  have  written  many  words  about  the  spirit  of  Paris  in 
war.  Yet  all  these  little  glimpses  I  have  given  reveal  only 
the  trivial  characteristics  of  the  city.  Through  all  these 
episodes  and  outward  facts,  rising  above  them  to  a  great 
height  of  spirituality,  the  soul  of  Paris  was  a  white  fire  burn- 
ing with  a  steady  flame.  I  cannot  describe  the  effect  of  it 
upon  one's  senses  and  imagination.  I  was  only  conscious 
of  it,  so  that  again  and  again,  in  the  midst  of  the  crowded 
boulevards,  or  in  the  dim  aisles  of  Notre  Dame,  or  wander- 
ing along  the  left  bank  of  the  Seine,  I  used  to  say  to  myself, 
silently  or  aloud :  "  These  people  are  wonderful !  .  .  .  They 
hold  the  spirit  of  an  unconquerable  race.  .  .  .  Nothing  can 
smash  this  city  of  intellect,  so  gay,  and  yet  so  patient  in  suf- 
fering, so  emotional  and  yet  so  stoic  in  pride  and  courage !  " 
There  was  weakness,  and  vanity,  in  Paris.  The  war  had  not 
cleansed  it  of  all  its  vice  or  of  all  its  corruption,  but  this 


THE     SOUL     OF     PARIS  279 

burning  wind  of  love  for  La  Patrie  touched  the  heart  of  every 
man  and  woman,  and  inflamed  them  so  that  self-interest  was 
almost  consumed,  and  sacrifice  for  the  sake  of  France  became 
a  natural  instinct.     The  ugliest  old  hag  in  the  market  shared 
this  love  with  the  most  beautiful  woman  of  the  salons,  the 
demi-mondaine   with    her   rouged   lips,   knelt   in   spirit,   like 
Mary  Magdalene  before  the  cross,  and  was  glad  to  suffer  for 
the  sake  of  a  pure  and  uncarnal  love,  symbolized  to  her  by 
the  folds  of  the  Tricolor  or  by  the  magic  of  that  word,  "  La 
France ! "  which  thrilled  her  soul,  smirched  by  the  traffic  of 
the    streets.     The    most   money-loving   bourgeois,    who   had 
counted  every  sou  and  cheated  every  other  one,  was  lifted 
out   of  his   meanness   and   materialism   and   did   astounding 
things,  without  a  murmur,  abandoning  his  business   to  go 
back  to  the  colors  as  a  soldier  of  France,  and  regarding  the 
ruin  of  a  life's  ambitions  without  a  heartache  so  that  France 
might  be  free.     There  were  embusques  in  Paris  —  perKaps 
hundreds,  or  even  thousands  of  young  men  who  searched  for 
soft  jobs  which  would  never  take  them  to  the  firing  line,  or 
who  pleaded  ill-health  with  the  successful  influence  of  a  fam- 
ily  or   political   "  pull."     Let   that  be   put   down  honestly, 
because  nothing  matters  save  the  truth.     But  the  manhood 
of  Paris  as  a  whole,  after  the  first  shudder  of  dismay,  the  first 
agonies  of  this  wrench  from  the  safe,  familiar  ways  of  life, 
rose  superbly  to  the  call  of  la  Patrie  en  danger!     The  mid- 
dle-aged fathers  of  families  and  the  younger  sons  marched 
away  singing  and  hiding  their  sadness  under  a  mask  of  care- 
less mirth.     The  boys  of  eighteen  followed  them  in  the  month 
of  April,  after  nine  months  of  war,  and  not  a  voice  in  Paris 
was  raised  to  protest  against  this  last  and  dreadful  sacrifice. 
Paris  cursed  the  stupidity  of  the  war,  cried  "  How  long,  O 
Lord,  how  long?  "  as  it  dragged  on  in  its  misery,  with  ac- 
cumulating sums  of  death,  was  faint  at  the  thought  of  an- 
other winter  campaign,  and  groaned  in  spirit  when  its  streets 
were  filled  with  wounded  men  and  black-garbed  women.     But 
though  Paris  suffered  with  the  finer  agonies  of  the  sensitive 


280  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

intelligence,  it  did  not  lose  faith  or  courage,  and  found  the 
heart  to  laugh  sometimes,  in  spite  of  all  its  tears. 

City  of  beauty,  built  out  of  the  dreams  of  great  artists 
and  great  poets,  I  have  watched  you  through  this  time  of 
war,  walking  through  your  silent  streets  in  the  ordeal  of  most 
dreadful  days,  mingling  with  your  crowds  when  a  multitude 
of  cripples  dragged  their  lopped  limbs  through  the  sunlight, 
stud^ung  your  moods  of  depression,  and  hopefulness,  and 
passionate  fer\'or,  wandering  in  your  churches,  your  theaters 
and  your  hospitals,  and  lingering  on  mild  nights  under  the 
star-strewn  sky  which  made  a  vague  glamour  above  your 
darkness ;  and  always  my  heart  has  paid  homage  to  the 
spirit  which  after  a  thousand  years  of  history  and  a  thousand 
million  crimes,  still  holds  the  fresh  virtue  of  ardent  youth, 
the  courage  of  a  gallant  race,  and  a  deathless  faith  in  the 
fine,  sweet,  gentle  things  of  art  and  life.  The  Germans,  how- 
ever great  their  army,  could  never  have  captured  the  soul  of 
Paris. 


CHAPTER  IX 
THE  SOLDIERS  OF  FRANCE 

WHEN  in  the  first  days  of  the  war  I  saw  the  soldiers 
of  France  on  their  way  to  the  front,  I  had  even 
then  a  conviction  that  the  fighting  qualities  of  the 
nation  had  not  degenerated  in  forty-four  years  of  peace, 
after  the  downfall  in  which  the  courage  of  men  had  been  be- 
trayed by  the  corruption  of  a  government.  Afterwards, 
during  many  months  as  a  wanderer  in  this  war,  I  came  to 
know  the  French  soldier  with  the  intimacy  of  long  conver- 
sations to  the  sound  of  guns,  in  the  first  line  of  trenches 
facing  the  enemy,  in  hospitals,  where  he  spoke  quietly  while 
comrades  snored  themselves  to  death,  in  villages  smashed  to 
pieces  by  shell-fire,  in  troop  trains  overcrowded  with  wounded, 
in  woods  and  fields  pock-marked  by  the  holes  of  "  marmites," 
and  in  the  restaurants  of  Paris  and  provincial  towns  where, 
with  an  empty  sleeve  or  one  trouser-leg  dangling  beneath 
the  tablecloth,  he  told  me  his  experiences  of  war  with  a  can- 
dor in  which  there  was  no  concealment  of  truth;  and  out  of 
all  these  friendships  and  revelations  of  soul  the  character 
of  the  soldiers  of  France  stands  before  my  mind  in  heroic 
colors. 

Individually,  of  course,  the  qualities  of  these  men  differ 
as  one  man  from  another  in  any  nation  or  class.  I  have  seen 
the  neurasthenic,  quivering  with  agony  in  his  distress  of 
imaginary  terrors,  and  the  man  with  steady  nerves,  who  can 
turn  a  deaf  ear  to  the  close  roar  of  guns  and  eat  a  hunk  of 
bread-and-cheese  with  an  unspoiled  appetite  within  a  yard  or 
two  of  death ;  I  have  seen  the  temperament  of  the  aristocrat 
and  the  snob  in  the  same  carriage  with  the  sons  of  the  soil 

281 


283  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

and  the  factory  whose  coarse  speech  and  easy-going  manners 
jarred  upon  his  daintiness.  War  does  not  entirely  anni- 
hilate all  distinctions  of  caste  even  in  France,  where  Equality 
is  a  good  word,  and  it  does  not  blend  all  intellectual  and 
moral  qualities  into  one  type  of  character,  in  spite  of  the 
discipline  of  compulsory  service  and  the  chemical  processes 
which  mix  flesh  and  bood  together  in  the  crucible  of  a  battle- 
field. So  it  is  impossible  to  write  of  the  French  soldier  as  a 
single  figure,  or  to  make  large  generalizations  about  the 
armies  of  France.  The  coward  skulks  by  the  side  of  the 
war.  The  priestly  spirit  in  the  ranks  is  outraged  by  the 
obscenities  of  the  debauchee. 

Yet  out  of  those  great  masses  of  men  who  have  fought 
for  France  there  does  emerge  a  certain  definite   character 
overwhelming  the  details  of  their  individual  differences,  and 
I  have  seen  certain  qualities  of  temperament  which  belong 
to  the  majority  of  them,  as  essential  elements  of  the  national 
spirit  of  France.     The  quality  of  their  patriotism,  for  ex- 
ample, shines  very  clear  above  all  these  millions  of  men  who 
have  abandoned  all  their  small  self-interests  for  the  supreme 
purpose  of  defending  France.     England  has  her  patriotism 
—  we  give  a  great  proof  of  it  in  blood  —  but  it  is  not  like 
that  of  France,  not  so  religious  in  its  sentiment,  not  so  pas- 
sionate in  its  convictions,  not  so  feminine  a  thing.     To  most 
of  these  French  soldiers,  indeed  to  all  that  I  have  talked 
with,  the  love  of  France  is  like  the  faith  of  a  devout  Catholic 
in  his  church.     It  is  not  to  be  argued  about.     It  holds  the 
very  truth  of  life.     It  enshrines  all  the  beauty  of  French 
ideals,  all  the  rich  color  of  imagination,  all  the  poetry  and 
music  that  has  thrilled  through  France  since  the  beginning 
of  our  civilization,  all  her  agonies  and  tears.     To  the  com- 
monest soldier  of  France,  "  La  Patrie  "  is  his  great  mother, 
with  the  tenderness  of  motherhood,  the  authority  of  mother- 
hood, the  sanctity  of  motherhood,  as  to  a  Catholic  the  Blessed 
Virgin  is  the  mother  of  his  soul.     Perhaps  as  one  of  her  chil- 
dren he  has  been  hardly  dealt  with,  has  starved  and  strug- 


THE     SOLDIERS     OF     FRANCE      283 

gled  and  received  many  whippings,  but  he  does  not  lose  his 
mother-love.  The  thought  of  outrageous  hands  plucking 
at  her  gannents,  of  hostile  feet  trampling  upon  her,  of  foul 
attempts  upon  her  liberty  and  honor,  stirs  him  to  just  that 
madness  he  would  feel  if  his  individual  mother,  out  of  whose 
womb  he  came,  were  threatened  in  the  same  way.  He  does 
not  like  death  —  he  dreads  the  thought  of  it  —  but  with- 
out questioning  his  soul  he  springs  forward  to  save  this 
mother-country  of  his  and  dies  upon  her  bosom  w'ith  a  cry  of 
"  Vive  la  France !  " 

The  French  soldier,  whatever  his  coarseness  or  his  deli- 
cacy, needs  feminine  consolation,  and  all  his  ideals  and  his 
yearnings  and  his  self-pity  are  intimately  associated  with 
the  love  of  women,  and  especially  of  one  woman  —  his  mother. 
When  Napoleon,  in  the  island  of  St.  Helena,  used  to  talk 
about  the  glories  of  his  victorious  years,  and  then  brooded 
over  the  tragedy  of  his  overthrow  so  that  all  his  soul  was 
clouded  with  despair,  he  used  to  rouse  himself  after  the  silence 
which  followed  those  hours  of  self-analysis  and  say,  "  Let 
us  talk  about  women  —  and  love."  Always  it  is  the  femi- 
nine spirit  in  which  a  Frenchman  bathes  his  wounds.  One 
small  incident  I  saw  a  3'ear  or  two  ago  gave  me  the  clue  to 
this  quality  in  the  French  character.  It  was  when  Vedrines, 
the  famous  airman,  was  beaten  by  only  a  few  minutes  in  the 
flight  round  England.  Capitaine  Conneau  — "  Beaumont," 
as  he  called  himself  —  had  outraced  his  rival  and  waited,  with 
Fi'ench  gallantry,  to  shake  the  hand  of  the  adversary  he 
had  defeated  on  untiring  wings.  A  great  crowd  of  smart 
men  and  women  waited  also  at  Brooklands  to  cheer  the  sec- 
ond in  the  race,  who  in  England  is  always  more  popular  than 
the  prize-winner.  But  when  Vedrines  came  to  earth  out  of 
a  blue  sky  he  was  savage  and  bitter.  The  loss  of  the  prize- 
money  was  a  great  tragedy  to  this  mechanic  who  had  staked 
all  his  ambition  on  the  flight.  He  shouted  out  harsh  words 
to  those  who  came  to  cheer  him,  and  shook  them  off  violently 
when  they  tried  to  clap  him  on  the  back.     He  was  savagely 


284.  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

angr}'.     Then   suddenly   something  seemed  to  break  in  his 
spirit,  and  his  face  quivered. 

"Is  there  any  woman  to  embrace  me?"  he  asked.     Out 
of  the  crowd  came  a  pretty  Frenchwoman  and,  understanding 
the  man,  though  she  had  not  met  him  before,  she  held  out 
her  arms  to  him  and  raised  her  face. 
"  Allons-donc,  mon  vieux !  "  she  said. 

The  man  put  his  arms  about  her  and  kissed  her,  while 
tears  streamed  down  his  face,  covered  in  sweat  and  dust. 
He  was  comforted,  like  a  boy  who  had  hurt  himself,  in  his 
mother's  arms.  It  was  a  queer  Httle  episode  —  utterly  im- 
possible in  the  imagination  of  an  Englishman  —  but  a  nat- 
ural thing  in  France. 

So  when  a  Frenchman  lies  dying,  almost  unconscious  be- 
fore the  last  breath,  it  is  always  a  woman's  name  that  he  cries 
out,  or  whispers,  though  not  always  the  name  of  his  wife  or 
mistress.  One  word  is  heard  again  and  again  in  the  hospital 
wards,  where  the  poilus  lie,  those  bearded  fellows,  so  strong 
when  they  went  out  to  the  war,  but  now  so  weak  and  helpless 
before  death. 

"  Maman  !     Maman  !  " 

It  is  to  the  bosom  of  motherhood  that  the  spirit  of  the 
Frenchman  goes  in  that  last  hour. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  little  mamma,"  writes  a  young  lieutenant 
of  artillery,  "  it  would  be  nice  to  be  in  my  own  room  again, 
where  your  picture  hangs  over  my  bed  looking  down  on  the 
white  pillows  upon  which  you  used  to  make  the  sign  of  the 
Cross  before  I  went  to  sleep.  I  often  try  to  dream  myself 
into  that  bedroom  again,  but  the  cold  is  too  intense  for 
dreams,  and  another  shell  comes  shrieking  overhead.  War 
is  nothing  but  misery,  after  all." 

Yet  if  the  English  reader  imagines  that  because  this  thread 
of  sentiment  runs  through  the  character  of  France  there  is 
a  softness  in  the  qualities  of  French  soldiers,  he  does  not 
know  the  truth.  Those  men  whom  I  saw  at  the  front  and 
behind  the  fighting  lines  were  as  hard  in  moral  and  spiritual 


THE     SOLDIERS     OF     FRANCE      285 

strength  as  in  physical  endurance.  It  was  this  very  hard- 
ness which  impressed  me  even  in  the  beginning  of  the  war, 
when  I  did  not  know  the  soldiers  of  France  as  well  as  I  do 
now.  After  a  few  weeks  in  the  field  these  men,  who  had  been 
laborers  and  mechanics,  clerks  and  journalists,  artists  and 
poets,  shop  assistants  and  railway  porters,  hotel  waiters, 
and  young  aristocrats  of  Paris  who  had  played  the  fool  with 
pretty  girls,  were  fined  down  to  the  quality  of  tempered  steel. 
With  not  a  spare  ounce  of  flesh  on  them  —  the  rations  of 
the  French  army  are  not  as  rich  as  ours  —  and  tested  by 
long  marches  down  dusty  roads,  by  incessant  fighting  in 
retreat  against  overwhelming  odds,  by  the  moral  torture  of 
those  rearguard  actions,  and  by  their  first  experience  of 
indescribable  horrors,  among  dead  and  dying  comrades,  they 
had  a  beauty  of  manhood  which  I  found  sublime.  They  were 
bronzed  and  dirty  and  hairy,  but  they  had  the  look  of  knight- 
hood, with  a  calm  light  shining  in  their  eyes  and  with  reso- 
lute lips.  They  had  no  gaiety  in  those  days,  when  France 
was  in  gravest  peril,  and  they  did  not  find  any  kind  of  fun 
in  this  war.  Out  of  their  baptism  of  fire  they  had  come 
with  scorched  souls,  knowing  the  murderous  quality  of  the 
business  to  which  they  were  apprenticed,  but  though  they 
did  not  hide  their  loathing  of  it,  nor  the  fears  which  had 
assailed  them,  nor  their  passionate  anger  against  the  people 
who  had  thrust  this  thing  upon  them,  they  showed  no  sign 
of  weakness.  They  were  willing  to  die  for  France,  though 
the}'  hated  death,  and  in  spite  of  the  first  great  rush  of  the 
German  legions,  they  had  a  fine  intellectual  contempt  of  that 
army,  which  seemed  to  me  then  unjustified,  though  they 
were  right,  as  history  now  shows.  Man  against  man,  in 
courage  and  cunning  they  were  better  than  the  Germans, 
gun  against  gun  they  were  better,  in  cavalry  charge  and  in 
bayonet  charge  they  were  better,  and  in  equal  number  irre- 
sistible. 

There  was  in  England  a  hidden  conviction,  expressed  pri- 
vately in  clubs  and  by  women  over  their  knitting,  that  the 


THE     SOUL    bP    THE     WAH 

French  soldiers  were  poor  fellows  as  fighting  men,  filled  with 
sentimentality,   full  of  brag,  with  fine  words  on  their  lips, 
but  with  no  strength  of  courage  or  endurance.     British  sol- 
'diers    coming  back   wounded   from    the   first   battles    and   a 
'tliree  -weeks'  rearguard  action,  spread  abroad  the  tale  that 
"those  French  fellows  were  utterly  useless  and  had  run  like 
rabbits  before  the  German  advance."     They  knew  nothing 
but  what  they  had  seen  in  their  own  ditches  on  the  fighting 
ground,  they  were  sick  with  horror  at  the  monstrous  charac- 
ter of  the  war,  and  they  had  a  rankling  grudge  against  the 
French  because  they  had  not  been  supported  strongly  enough 
during  those  weeks  in  August  between  Charleroi  and  Com- 
piegne.     Later,  the  English  press,  anxious,  naturally  enough, 
to  throw  into  high  relief  the  exploits  of  our  own  troops  in 
France,  and  getting  only  scraps  of  news  from  the  French 
lines,   gave   a   distorted  view  of  the   general   situation,  and 
threw  the  whole  picture  of  the  war  out  of  perspective,  Hke 
the  image  of  a  man  in  a  convex  mirror.     The  relative  im- 
portance of  the  British  expedition  was  vastly  exaggerated, 
not  because  its  particular  importance  was  overestimated,  but 
because  the   French  operations   received  very   scant  notice. 
There  are  still  people  in  England  who  believe  with  a  pious 
and  passionate  faith  that  our  soldiers  sustained  the  entire 
and  continual  attack  of  the  German  army,  while  the  French 
looked  on  and  thanked  God  for  our  work  of  rescue.     The 
fact  that  we  only  held  a  front  of  thirty  miles,  at  most,  during 
the  first  nine  months  of  war,  and  that  the  French  were  suc- 
cessfully holding  a  line  of  five  hundred  miles  through  which 
the  Germans  were  trying  to  smash  their  way  by  repeated 
attacks  of  ferocious  character,  never  took  hold  of  the  im- 
agination of  many  honest  souls  at  home,  who  thrilled  with 
patriotic  pride  at  the  heroism  of  the  British  troops,  accord- 
ing to  the  old  tradition  of  "  How  England  saved  Europe." 

Well,  nothing  will  ever  minimize  our  services  to  France. 
The  graves  of  our  men  will  stand  as  records  of  the  help  we 
gave,  paying  our  debt  of  honor  with  priceless  blood.     But 


THE     SOLDIERS     OF     FRANCE      287 

England  must  know  what  France  did  in  self-defense  and  un- 
derstand the  fine  enduring  heroism  of  those  armies  of  France 
who,  after  the  first  mistakes,  built  a  wall  of  steel  against 
which  the  greatest  fighting  machine  in  Europe  shattered 
itself  in  vain. 

Not  a  mile  along  all  that  five  hundred  miles  of  front  was 
without  its  battle,  and  not  a  mile  there  but  is  the  grave 
of  young  Frenchmen  who  fought  with  a  martyr's  faith  and 
recklessness  of  life.  As  far  back  as  the  last  days  of  Sep- 
tember, 1914,  I  met  men  of  the  eastern  frontier  who  had  a 
right  already  to  call  themselves  veterans  because  they  had 
been  fighting  continuously  for  two  months  in  innumerable 
engagements  —  for  the  most  part  unrecorded  in  the  public 
press. 

At  the  outset  they  were  smart  fellows,  clean-shaven  and 
even  spruce  in  their  new  blue  coats  and  scarlet  trousers. 
Now  the  war  had  put  its  dirt  upon  them  and  seemed  to  have 
aged  them  by  fifteen  years,  leaving  its  ineffaceable  imprint 
upon  their  faces.  They  had  stubble  beards  upon  their  chins, 
and  their  cheeks  were  sunken  and  hollow,  after  short  rations 
in  the  trenches  and  sleepless  nights  on  the  battlefields,  with 
death  as  their  bedfellow.  Their  blue  coats  had  changed  to 
a  dusty  gray.  Their  scarlet  trousers  had  deep  patches  of 
crimson,  where  the  blood  of  comrades  had  splashed  them. 
They  were  tattered  and  torn  and  foul  with  the  muck  and 
slime  of  their  frontier  work.  But  they  were  also  hard  and 
tough  for  the  most  part  —  though  here  and  there  a  man 
coughed  wheezily  with  bronchitis  or  had  the  pallor  of  ex- 
cessive fatigue  —  and  Napoleon  would  not  have  wished  for 
better  fighting-men. 

In  the  wooded  country  of  the  two  "  Lost  Provinces," 
there  was  but  little  time  or  chance  to  bury  the  dead  encum- 
bering the  hills  and  fields.  Even  six  weeks  after  the  begin- 
ning of  the  war  horror  made  a  camping  ground  of  the  re- 
gions which  lay  to  the  east  of  the  Mcurthe,  between  the  vil- 
lages of  Blamont  and  Badonviller,  Cirey  les  Forges  and  Arra- 


288  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

court,  Chateau  Salins  and  Baudrecourt.  The  slopes  of 
Hartmansweilerkopf  were  already  washed  by  waves  of  blood 
which  surged  round  it  for  nine  months  and  more,  until  its 
final  capture  by  the  French.  St.  Mihiel  and  Les  Eparges 
and  the  triangle  which  the  Germans  had  wedged  between 
the  French  lines  were  a  shambles  before  the  leaves  had  fallen 
from  the  autumn  trees  in  the  first  year  of  war.  In  the 
country  of  the  Argonne  men  fought  like  wolves  and  began 
a  guerrilla  warfare  with  smaller  bodies  of  men,  fighting  from 
wood  to  wood,  from  village  to  village,  the  forces  on  each 
side  being  scattered  over  a  wide  area  in  advance  of  their 
main  lines.  Then  they  dug  themselves  into  trenches  from 
which  they  came  out  at  night,  creeping  up  to  each  other's 
lines,  flinging  themselves  upon  each  other  with  bayonets  and 
butt-ends,  killing  each  other  as  beasts  kill,  without  pity  and 
in  the  mad  rage  of  terror  which  is  the  fiercest  kind  of  cour- 
age. 

In  Lorraine  the  tide  of  war  ebbed  and  flowed  over  the 
same  tracts  of  ground,  and  neither  side  picked  up  its  dead 
or  its  wounded.  Men  lay  there  alive  for  days  and  nights, 
bleeding  slowly  to  death.  The  hot  sun  glared  down  upon 
them  and  made  them  mad  with  thirst.  Some  of  them 
lay  there  for  as  long  as  three  weeks,  still  alive,  with 
gangrened  limbs  in  which  lice  crawled,  so  that  they  stank 
abominably. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  all  the  things  I  saw,"  said  one  of  the 
young  soldiers  who  talked  to  me  on  his  way  back  from  Lor- 
raine. He  had  a  queer  look  in  his  eyes  when  he  spoke  those 
words  which  he  tried  to  hide  from  me  by  turning  his  head 
away.  But  he  told  me  how  the  fields  were  littered  with  dead, 
decomposing  and  swarmed  with  flies,  lying  there  in  huddled 
postures,  yet  some  of  them  so  placed  that  their  fixed  eyes 
seemed  to  be  staring  at  the  corpses  near  them.  And  he  told 
me  how  on  the  night  he  had  his  own  wound  French  and  Ger- 
man soldiers  not  yet  dead  talked  together  by  the  light  of 
the  moon,  which  shed  its  pale  light  upon  all  those  prostrate 


THE     SOLDIERS     OF     FRANCE      289 

men,  making  their  faces  look  very  white.  He  heard  the 
murmurs  of  voices  about  him,  and  the  groans  of  the  dying, 
rising  to  hideous  anguish  as  men  were  tortured  by  ghastly 
wounds  and  broken  limbs.  In  that  night  enmity  was  for- 
gotten by  those  who  had  fought  like  beasts  and  now  lay 
together.  A  French  soldier  gave  his  water-bottle  to  a  Ger- 
man officer  who  was  crying  out  with  thirst.  The  German 
sipped  a  little  and  then  kissed  the  hand  of  the  man  who  had 
been  his  enemy.  "  There  will  be  no  war  on  the  other  side," 
he  said. 

Another  Frenchman  —  who  came  from  Montmartre  — 
found  lying  within  a  yard  of  him  a  Luxembourgeois  whom 
he  had  known  as  his  chasseur  in  a  big  hotel  in  Paris.  The 
young  German  wept  to  see  his  old  acquaintance.  "  It  is 
stupid,"  he  said,  "  this  war.  You  and  I  were  happy  when 
we  were  good  friends  in  Paris.  Why  should  we  have  been 
made  to  fight  each  other?  "  He  died  with  his  arms  round 
the  neck  of  the  soldier  who  told  me  the  story,  unashamed  of 
his  own  tears. 

Round  this  man's  neck  also  were  clasped  the  arms  of  a 
German  officer  when  a  week  previously  the  French  piou-piou 
went  across  the  field  of  a  battle  —  one  of  the  innumerable 
skirmishes  —  which  had  been  fought  and  won  four  days  be- 
fore another  French  retirement.  The  young  German  had 
had  both  legs  broken  b}^  a  shell,  and  was  wounded  in  other 
places.  He  had  strength  enough  to  groan  piteously,  but 
when  my  friend  lifted  him  up  death  was  near  to  him. 

"  He  was  all  rotten,"  said  the  soldier,  "  and  there  came 
such  a  terrible  stench  from  him  that  I  nearly  dropped  him, 
and  vomited  as  I  carried  him  along." 

I  learned  something  of  the  psychology  of  the  French  sol- 
dier from  this  young  infantryman  with  whom  I  traveled  in 
a  train  full  of  wounded  soon  after  that  night  in  Lorraine, 
when  the  moon  had  looked  down  on  the  field  of  the  dead  and 
dying  in  which  he  lay  with  a  broken  leg.  He  had  passed 
through  a  great  ordeal,  so  that  his  nerves  were  still  torn  and 


290  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

quivering,  and  I  think  lie  was  afraid  of  going  mad  at  the 
memory'  of  the  things  he  had  seen  and  suffered,  because  he 
tried  to  compel  himself  to  talk  of  trivial  things,  such  as  the 
beauty  of  the  flowers  growing  on  the  railway  banks  and  the 
different  badges  on  English  uniforms.  But  suddenly  he 
would  go  back  to  the  tale  of  his  fighting  in  Lorraine  and 
resume  a  long  and  rapid  monologue  in  which  little  pictures 
of  horror  flashed  after  each  other  as  though  his  brain  were 
a  cinematograph  recording  some  melodrama.  Queer  bits 
of  philosophy  jerked  out  between  this  narrative.  "  This  war 
is  only  endurable  because  it  is  for  a  final  peace  in  Europe." 
"  Men  will  refuse  to  suffer  these  things  again.  It  is  the  end 
of  militarism."  "  If  I  thought  that  a  child  of  mine  would 
have  to  go  through  all  that  I  have  suffered  during  these 
last  weeks,  I  would  strangle  him  in  his  cradle  to  save  him 
from  it." 

Sometimes  he  spoke  of  France  with  a  kind  of  religion  in  his 
eyes. 

"  Of  course,  I  am  ready  to  die  for  France.  She  can  de- 
mand my  life  as  a  right.  I  belong  to  her  and  she  can  do 
with  me  what  she  likes.  It's  my  duty  to  fight  in  her  defense, 
and  although  I  tell  you  all  the  worst  of  war.  Monsieur,  I  do 
not  mean  that  I  am  not  glad  to  have  done  my  part.  In  a 
few  weeks  this  wound  of  mine  will  be  healed  and  I  shall  go 
back,  for  the  sake  of  France,  to  that  Hell  again.  It  is  Hell, 
quand  meme!  " 

He  analyzed  his  fears  with  simple  candor  and  confessed 
that  many  times  he  had  suffered  most  from  imaginary  ter- 
rors. After  the  German  retreat  from  Luneville,  he  was  put 
on  a  chain  of  outposts  linked  up  with  the  main  French  lines. 
It  was  at  night,  and  as  he  stood  leaning  on  his  rifle  he  saw 
black  figures  moving  towards  him.  He  raised  his  rifle,  and 
his  finger  trembled  on  the  trigger.  At  the  first  shot  he  would 
arouse  the  battalion  nearest  to  him.  They  were  sleeping, 
but  as  men  sleep  who  may  be  suddenly  attacked.  They 
would  fire  without  further  question,  and  probably  he  would 


THE     SOLDIERS     OF     FRANCE      291 

"be  the  first  to  die  from  their  bullets.  Was  it  the  enemy? 
They  were  coming  at  right  angles  to  the  French  lines.  The 
foremost  were  even  within  twenty  yards  of  him  now.  His 
nerves  were  all  trembling.  He  broke  out  into  a  hot  sweat. 
His  eyes  straining  through  the  darkness  were  shot  through 
with  pain.  He  had  almost  an  irresistible  desire  to  fire  and 
shout  out,  so  as  to  end  the  strain  of  suspense  which  racked 
his  soul.  At  last  he  gave  the  challenge,  restraining  himself 
from  firing  that  first  shot.  It  was  well  he  did  so.  For  the 
advancing  French  troops  belonged  to  a  French  regiment 
changing  their  position  under  cover  of  darkness.  If  my  little 
friend  had  lost  his  nerve  and  fired  too  soon  they  would  have 
been  shot  down  by  their  own  comrades. 

"  It's  one's  imagination  that  gives  one  most  trouble,"  he 
said,  and  I  thought  of  the  words  of  an  English  officer,  who 
told  me  one  day  that  "  No  one  with  an  imagination  ought  to 
come  out  to  this  war."  It  is  for  that  reason  —  the  posses- 
sion of  a  highly  developed  imagination  —  that  so  many 
French  soldiers  have  suffered  more  acutely  than  their  Eng- 
lish allies.  They  see  the  risks  of  war  more  vividly,  though 
they  take  them  with  great  valor.  They  are  more  sensitive 
to  the  sights  and  sounds  of  the  fighting  lines  than  the  average 
English  "  Tommy,"  who  has  a  tougher  temperament  and 
does  not  allow  his  mind  to  brood  over  blood  and  agony. 
They  have  the  gift,  also,  of  self-anaWsis  and  self-expression, 
so  that  they  are  able  to  translate  their  emotions  into  vivid 
words,  whereas  our  own  men  are  taciturn  for  the  most  part 
about  their  side  of  the  business  and  talk  objectively,  looking 
outwards,  and  not  inwards. 

Some  of  the  letters  from  French  soldiers,  scrawled  in  the 
squalor  of  the  trenches  by  men  caked  in  filth  and  mud,  are 
human  documents  in  which  they  reveal  themselves  with  ex- 
traordinary intimacy,  and  in  which  they  put  the  whole  truth, 
not  disguising  their  terror  or  their  blood-lust  in  the  savage 
madness  of  a  bayonet  charge,  or  the  heartache  which  comes 
to  them  when  they  think  of  the  woman  they   love,  or  the 


292  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

queer  little  emotions  and  sentiments  ■which  come  to  them  in 
the  grim  business  of  war.  They  watch  the  dawn,  and  in  a 
line  or  two  put  some  of  its  beauty  into  their  letters  home. 
They  describe  with  a  literary  skill  that  comes  from  strong 
emotions  the  gloom  and  horror  of  long  nights  near  the 
enemy's  trenches  from  which  at  any  moment  a  new  attack 
may  come,  And  3'et,  though  they  do  not  hide  their  moments 
of  spiritual  misery  or  despair,  there  is  in  all  these  letters  the 
splendid  courage  of  men  who  are  ready  for  the  last  sacrifice 
and  eager  for  their  chance  of  honor. 

"  I  send  this  letter,"  writes  a  young  Zouave,  "  as  I  sit 
huddled  under  an  earth-heap  at  twenty  yards  from  a  Ger- 
man trench,  less  to  be  envied  than  a  rabbit  in  its  burrow, 
because  when  the  hunter  is  far  away  it  can  come  out  and 
feed  at  pleasure.  You  who  live  through  the  same  agonies, 
old  friend,  must  learn  and  rejoice  that  I  have  been  promoted 
adjutant  on  the  night  of  November  13  on  the  banks  of  the 
Yser.  There  were  seventy  men  out  of  250  —  the  rest  of 
the  company  sleep  forever  round  that  ferryman's  house 
■which  the  papers  have  made  famous.  .  .  .  What  moral  suf- 
ferings I  have  endured !  We  have  now  been  brought  to  the 
south  of  Ypres  and  continue  this  depressing  life  in  advanced 
trenches.  Not  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  respite:  shells,  shrap- 
nels, bombs  and  bullets  fall  around  us  continuously.  How 
courage  has  changed  with  this  modern  war !  The  hero  of 
olden  times  was  of  a  special  type,  who  put  on  a  fine  pose  and 
played  up  to  the  gallery  because  he  fought  before  admiring 
spectators.  Now,  apart  from  our  night  attacks,  always  mur- 
derous, in  which  courage  is  not  to  be  seen,  because  one  can 
hardly  discern  one's  neighbor  in  the  darkness,  our  valor  con- 
sists in  a  perfect  stoicism.  Just  now  I  had  a  fellow  killed 
before  a  loophole.  His  comrades  dragged  him  away,  and 
with  perfect  quietude  replaced  the  man  who  is  eternally  out 
of  action.  Isn't  that  strange?  Isn't  it  courage  to  get  the 
brains  of  one's  comrade  full  in  the  face,  and  then  to  stand 


THE     SOLDIERS     OF     FRANCE      293 

on  guard  in  the  same  place  while  suffering  the  extremes  of 
cold  and  dampness?  ...  On  the  night  of  the  13th  I  com- 
manded a  section  of  corps  which  a  mitrailleuse  had  raked. 
I  had  the  luck  to  escape,  and  I  shouted  to  these  poor  devils 
to  make  a  last  assault.  Then  I  saw  what  had  happened 
and  found  myself  with  a  broken  rifle  and  a  uniform  in  rags 
and  tatters.  My  commandant  spoke  to  me  that  night,  and 
said:  *  You  had  better  change  those  clothes.  You  can  put 
on  an  adjutant's  stripes.'  " 

One  passage  in  this  young  Zouave's  letter  reveals  the  full 
misery  of  the  war  to  a  Frenchman's  spirit:  "  Our  courage 
consists  in  a  perfect  stoicism."  It  is  not  the  kind  of  cour- 
age which  suits  his  temperament,  and  to  sit  in  a  trench  for 
months,  inactive,  waiting  for  death  under  the  rain  of  shells, 
is  the  worst  ordeal  to  which  the  soul  of  the  French  soldier  is 
asked  to  submit.  Yet  he  has  submitted,  and  held  firm,  along 
lines  of  trenches,  500  miles  from  end  to  end,  with  a  patience 
in  endurance  which  no  critics  of  France  would  have  believed 
possible  until  the  proof  was  given.  Above  the  parapet  lie 
the  corpses  of  comrades  and  of  men  who  were  his  enemies 
until  they  became  poor  clay. 

"  The  greater  number  of  the  bodies,"  writes  a  soldier, 
"  still  lie  between  the  trenches,  and  we  have  been  unable  to 
withdraw  them.  We  can  see  them  always,  in  frightful  quan- 
tity, some  of  them  intact,  others  torn  to  bits  by  the  shells 
which  continue  to  fall  upon  them.  The  stench  of  this  cor- 
ruption floats  down  upon  us  with  foul  odors.  Bits  of  their 
rotting  carcasses  are  flung  into  our  faces  and  over  our  heads 
as  new  shells  burst  and  scatter  them.  It  is  like  living  in  a 
charnel  house  where  devils  are  at  play  flinging  dead  men's 
flesh  at  living  men,  with  fiendish  mockery.  The  smell  of  this 
corruption  taints  our  food,  and  taints  our  very  souls,  so  that 
we  are  spiritually  and  physically  sick.     That  is  war !  '* 

"  This  horrible  game  of  war,"  writes  another  man,  "  goes 
on  passionately  in  our  corner.     In  seventy-four  days  we  have 


294.  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

'  progressed  '  about  1200  yards.  That  tells  you  everything. 
Ground  is  gained,  so  to  speak,  by  the  inch,  and  we  all  know 
now  how  much  it  costs  to  get  back  a  bit  of  free  France." 

Along  the  French  lines  Death  did  not  rest  from  his  harvest- 
ing whatever  the  weather,  and  although  for  months  there 
was  no  general  advance  on  either  side,  not  a  day  passed  with- 
out new  work  for  the  surgeons,  the  stretcher-bearers,  and  the 
grave-diggers.  One  incident  is  typical  of  a  hospital  scene 
near  the  front.  It  was  told  in  a  letter  from  a  hospital  nurse 
to  a  friend  in  Paris. 

"  About  midday  we  received  a  wounded  general,  whom 
we  made  as  comfortable  as  possible  in  a  little  room.  Al- 
though he  suffered  terribly,  he  would  submit  to  no  special 
care,  and  only  thought  of  the  comfort  of  two  of  his  officers. 
By  an  extraordinary  chance  a  soldier  of  his  own  regiment 
was  brought  in  a  few  moments  later.  Joy  of  the  general, 
who  wanted  to  learn  at  once  what  had  happened  to  his  chil- 
dren.    He  asked  to  see  the  soldier  immediately: 

"  *  Tell  me  —  the  commandant  ?  ' 

"  '  Dead,  mon  general.' 

"  *  And  the  captain?' 

*' '  Dead,  mon  general.' 

"  Four  times  questions  were  asked,  and  four  times  the 
soldier,  whose  voice  became  lower,  made  his  answer  of  death. 
Then  the  general  lowered  his  head  and  asked  no  more.  We 
saw  the  tears  running  down  his  scarred  old  face,  and  we 
crept  out  of  the  room  on  tiptoe." 

In  spite  of  all  this  tragedy,  the  French  soldier  into  whose 
soul  it  sank,  and  who  will  never  forget,  wrote  home  with  a 
gaiety  which  gleamed  through  the  sadness  of  his  memories. 
There  was  a  new  series  of  "  Lettres  de  mon  moulin  "  from  a 
young  officer  of  artillery  keeping  guard  in  an  old  mill-house 
in  an  important  position  at  the  front.  They  were  addressed 
to  his  "  dearest  mamma,"  and,  thoughtful  of  all  the  pretty 
hands  which  had  been  knitting  garments  for  him,  he  described 
his  endeavors  to  keep  warm  in  them : 


THE     SOLDIERS     OF     FRANCE      295 

"  To-night  I  have  piled  on  to  my  respectable  body  a  flan- 
nel waistcoat,  a  flannel  shirt,  and  a  flannel  belt  going  round 
three  times,  a  jacket  with  sleeves  sent  by  mamma  herself,  a 
leather  waistcoat  from  Aunt  Charlotte,  a  woolen  vest  which 
came  to  me  from  the  unknown  mother  of  a  young  dragoon, 
a  warm  undercoat  recently  received  from  my  tailor,  and  a 
woolen  jacket  and  wrap  knitted  by  Madame  P.  J.  So  I 
prepare  to  sleep  in  peace,  if  the  '  Roches  '  will  kindly  allow 
me.'* 

The  enemy  did  not  often  allow  the  young  gentleman  to 
sleep  and  about  the  windmill  the  shells  were  bursting. 

They  reached  one  Sunday  morning  almost  as  far  as  the 
little  twelfth-century  church  to  which  the  young  officer  had 
stepped  down  from  his  windmill  to  hear  Mass  in  the  middle 
of  a  crowd  of  soldiers  chanting  the  office,  recited  by  a  soldier, 
accompanied  by  a  harmonium  played  by  another  soldier. 
The  windows  were  shattered,  and  a  beautiful  old  house  next 
to  the  church  lay  in  ruins. 

The  officer  spent  lonely  hours  in  the  windmill  in  charge 
of  the  telephone  exchange,  from  which  the  batteries  were 
worked.  The  men  in  the  trenches  and  the  gun-pits  pitied  his 
loneliness,  and  invented  a  scheme  to  cheer  him  up.  So  after 
dark,  when  the  cannonade  slackened,  he  put  the  receiver  to 
his  ears  and  listened  to  a  Tyrolese  ballad  sung  by  an  orderly, 
and  to  the  admirable  imitation  of  a  barking  dog  performed 
by  a  sapper,  and  to  a  Parisian  chanson  delightfully  rendered 
by  the  aviator. 

"  Ronne  nuit,  maman,"  wrote  the  officer  of  artillery  at 
the  end  of  each  letter  from  his  windmill. 

The  front  did  not  change  its  outline  on  the  map,  except 
by  hairbreadths,  for  months  at  a  stretch,  yet  at  many  points 
of  the  line  there  were  desperate  battles,  a  bayonet  charge 
now  and  then,  and  hours  of  frightful  slaughter,  when  men  saw 
red  and  killed  with  joy. 

There  was  a  little  farm  near  Steinbach  round  which  a 
battle  raged  for  many  days.     Leading  to  it  was  a  sunken 


296  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

road,  defended  by  the  enemy,  until  one  day  they  put  up  a 
number  of  non-combatants  from  captured  villages  to  prevent 
a  French  attack. 

"  Among  them  we  could  distinguish  a  woman,  with  her 
hair  falling  to  her  shoulders  and  her  hands  tied  behind  her 
back.  This  new  infamy  inflamed  the  courage  of  our  soldiers. 
A  company  rushed  forward  with  fixed  bayonets.  The  road 
to  the  farm  was  swept  by  the  enemy's  fire,  but  nothing 
stopped  our  men.  In  spite  of  our  losses  we  carried  the  posi- 
tion and  are  masters  of  the  farm.  There  was  no  mercy  in 
those  moments  of  triumph.  The  ghastly  business  of  war  was 
done  to  the  uttermost." 

There  were  ghastly  things  in  some  of  the  enemy's  trenches. 
One  of  the  worst  of  them  was  seen  in  the  forest  of  Apremont, 
in  the  district  of  Woevre,  where  the  enemy  was  strongly  en- 
trenched in  some  quarries  quite  close  to  the  French  trenches, 
which  sapped  their  way  forward  to  those  pits.  When  the 
guns  ceased  firing  the  French  soldiers  often  heard  the  sound 
of  singing.  But  above  the  voices  of  the  Germans  there 
came  sometimes  a  series  of  piercing  cries  like  the  screeching 
of  an  owl  in  a  terrible  plaint,  followed  by  strange  and  blood- 
curdling laughter.  It  was  the  voice  of  a  mad  woman  who 
was  one  of  those  captured  from  neighboring  villages  and 
brought  into  the  trenches  by  the  Germans.  One  day  the 
German  soldiers  carried  her  the  length  of  their  own  trenches. 
Only  her  head  was  visible  above  the  ground.  She  wore  a 
German  helmet  above  the  wild  hair  which  blew  in  wisps  about 
her  death-white  face,  and  it  seemed  like  a  vision  of  hell  as 
she  passed  shrieking  with  the  laughter  of  insanity. 

One  turns  from  such  horrors  to  the  heroism  of  the  French 
soldier,  his  devotion  to  his  officers,  his  letters  to  that  chere 
maman  before  whom  his  heart  is  always  that  of  a  little  child, 
to  the  faith  which  saves  men  from  at  least  the  grosser  brutal- 
ities of  war. 

One  of  the  tragic  ironies  of  the  war  was  that  men  whose 
lives  had  been  dedicated  to  the  service  of  Christ,  and  whose 


THE     SOLDIERS     OF     FRANCE      297 

hands  should  be  clean  of  blood,  found  themselves  compelled 
by  the  law  of  France  (and  in  many  cases  urged  by  their  own 
instincts  of  nationality)  to  serve  as  soldiers  in  the  fighting 
ranks.  Instead  of  denouncing  from  every  pulpit  the  shame- 
fulness  of  this  butchery,  which  has  made  a  mockery  of  our 
so-called  civilization  and  involved  all  humanity  in  its  crime, 
those  priests  and  monks  put  themselves  under  discipline 
which  sent  them  into  the  shambles  in  which  they  must  kill 
or  be  killed.  When  the  mobilization  orders  were  issued,  the 
call  to  the  colors  was  sent  to  young  cures  and  abbes  through- 
out the  country,  and  to  monks  belonging  to  religious  orders 
banished  by  its  politicians.  Jesuits  and  Dominicans, 
Franciscans  and  Carmelites,  who  had  been  exiled  from  France 
for  conscience'  sake,  hurried  back  at  the  first  summons,  dis- 
pensed from  that  Canon  Law  which  forbids  them  to  shed 
blood,  and  as  Frenchmen,  loving  their  country  though  it 
expelled  them,  rallied  to  the  flag  in  the  hour  of  peril.  They 
were  Christian  priests,  but  they  were  also  patriots,  and 
Christianity  is  not  so  instinctive  in  its  emotion  as  the  spirit 
of  nationality  which,  by  some  natural  law,  makes  men  on 
one  side  of  a  frontier  eager  to  fight  till  death  when  they  are 
challenged  by  men  across  the  boundary  line,  forgetting  their 
principles  of  peace  and  the  command,  "  Thou  shalt  not  kill," 
in  their  loyalty  to  their  own  soil,  crown,  or  national  ideas. 
There  were  twenty  thousand  priests  in  the  French  army,  and 
although  many  of  them  were  acting  according  to  their  re- 
ligious vocations  as  chaplains,  or  stretcher-bearers,  the  great 
majority  were  serving  as  simple  soldiers  in  the  ranks  or  as 
officers  who  had  gained  promotion  by  merit. 

Although  nothing  may  explain  away  the  paradox  that 
those  whose  duty  is  to  preach  the  gospel  of  peace  and 
charity  should  be  helping  to  heap  up  the  fields  of  Christen- 
dom with  the  corruption  of  dead  bodies,  there  is  at  least  this 
to  be  said :  the  priest-soldier  in  France  has  been  a  spiritual 
influence  among  his  comrades,  so  that  some  of  them  fought 
with  nobler  motives  than  that  of  blood-lust,  and  went  to 


298  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

death  or  victory,  influenced  not  by  hatred  of  fellow  men,  but 
by  a  conviction  that  out  of  all  that  death  there  would 
come  a  new  life  to  nations,  and  that  in  killing  their  enemy 
they  were  killing  a  brutal  tyranny  with  its  grip  upon  the 
world,  and  a  barbarism  w^hich  would  make  human  life  a 
slavery. 

A  young  priest  who  said  his  prayers  before  lying  down 
on  his  straw  mattress  or  in  the  mud  of  his  trench,  put  a 
check  upon  blasphemy,  and  his  fellows  —  anti-clericals  per- 
haps in  the  old  days  or  frank  materialists  —  watched  him 
curiously  and  were  thoughtful  after  their  watchfulness.  It 
was  easy  to  see  that  he  was  eager  to  give  up  his  life  as  a  sac- 
rifice to  the  God  of  his  faith.  His  courage  had  something 
supernatural  in  it,  and  he  was  careless  of  death.  Then, 
again,  he  was  the  best  comrade  in  the  company.  Never  a 
grumble  came  from  his  lips,  though  he  was  as  cold  and  wet 
and  hungry  as  the  others.  He  did  a  thousand  little  acts  of 
service  to  his  fellow  soldiers,  and  especially  to  those  who  were 
most  sullen,  most  brutal  or  most  miserable.  He  spoke  some- 
times of  the  next  life  with  a  cheerful  certainty  which  made 
death  seem  less  than  an  end  of  things,  and  he  was  upborne 
with  a  strange  fervor  which  gave  a  kind  of  glory  to  the  most 
wretched  toil. 

Not  a  week  passed  without  some  priest  being  cited  in  the 
Order  of  the  Day. 

"  Corporal  Delabre  Alphonse  (priest  of  the  diocese  of 
Puy)  and  Private  Miolane  Antoine  (priest  of  the  diocese  of 
Clermont)  belonging  to  the  292nd  Regiment  of  Infantry, 
distinguished  themselves  throughout  the  battle  by  an  un- 
tiring gallantry  and  devotion,  going  to  collect  the  wounded 
in  the  line  and  aftcnvards  spending  their  nights  in  assisting 
the  wounded  and  dying." 

That  is  one  notice  out  of  hundreds  which  I  had  in  official 
documents. 

"  M.  I'Abbe  Martin,"  says  another,  "  having  been 
wounded  in  the  hand  by  a  bursting  shell,  remained  at  his  post 


THE     SOLDIERS     OF     FRANCE      299 

in  the  line  of  fire,  prodigal  in  his  help  to  the  wounded  and  in 
his  consolations  to  the  dying." 

The  Abbe  Bcrtrand,  vicar  of  St.  Germain  de  Coulamer, 
was  mobilized  on  the  outbreak  of  war,  and  for  his  gallantry 
in  the  field  promoted  successively  to  the  ranks  of  sergeant, 
sergeant-major,  sub-lieutenant,  and  lieutenant.  He  fell  on 
November  4  at  the  battle  of  Audrechy,  leading  his  men  to 
the  assault.  A  few  days  before  his  death  he  wrote :  "  I 
always  look  upon  this  war  as  an  expiation,  and  I  am  proud 
to  be  a  victim."  And  again:  "Oh,  how  cold  the  rain  is, 
and  how  severe  the  weather !  For  our  faith  in  France  I  have 
offered  God  to  let  me  be  wet  and  soaked  to  the  very  bones." 

The  story  of  the  Abbe  Armand,  in  the  14th  battalion 
of  the  Chasseurs  Alpins,  is  that  of  a  hero.  A  simple  man, 
he  used  to  open  his  heart  to  his  rough  comrades,  and  often 
in  the  trenches,  under  shell-fire,  he  would  recite  the  Psalms 
in  a  clear  voice  so  that  they  could  hear  him.  On  November 
17,  to  the  south  of  Ypres,  his  company  was  selected  to  hold 
a  dangerous  position,  swept  by  the  heavy  guns  of  the  Ger- 
mans and  near  the  enemy's  trenches.  All  day  until  the  even- 
ing the  priest  and  his  comrades  stayed  there,  raked  by  a 
hideous  shell-fire.  At  last  nearly  all  the  men  were  killed,  and 
on  his  side  of  the  emplacement  the  Abbe  Armand  was  left 
with  two  men  alive.  He  signaled  the  fact  to  those  below 
by  raising  three  fingers,  but  shortly  afterwards  a  bullet 
struck  him  so  that  he  fell  and  another  hit  him  in  the  stom- 
ach. It  was  impossible  to  send  help  to  him  at  the  time,  and 
he  died  half  an  hour  later  on  the  tumulus  surrounded  by 
the  dead  bodies  of  his  comrades.  They  buried  him  up  there, 
and  that  night  his  loss  was  mourned,  not  without  tears,  by 
many  rough  soldiers  who  had  loved  the  man  for  his  cheeri- 
ness,  and  honored  him  for  the  simple  faith,  which  seemed  to 
put  a  glamour  about  the  mudstained  uniform  of  a  soldier  of 
France. 

There  were  scores  of  stories  like  that,  and  the  army  lists 
contained  the  names  of  hundreds  of  these  priest-soldiers  deco- 


300  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

rated  with  the  Legion  of  Honor  or  mentioned  in  despatches 
for  gallant  acts. 

The  character  of  these  men  was  filled  with  the  spirit  of 
Christian  faith,  though  the  war  in  which  they  sacrificed  their 
lives  was  an  outrage  against  Christianity  itself.  The  riddle 
of  it  all  bewilders  one's  soul,  and  one  can  only  go  groping 
in  the  dark  of  despair,  glad  of  the  little  light  which  comes  to 
the  trench  of  the  battlefield,  because  men  like  these  still 
promise  something  better  than  hatred  and  blood,  and  look 
beyond  the  gates  of  death,  to  peace. 

Not  all  French  soldiers  are  like  these  priests  who  were 
valiant  with  the  spirit  of  Christian  faith.  Side  by  side  with 
the  priest  was  the  apache,  or  the  slum-dweller,  or  the  peas- 
ant from  the  fields,  who  in  conversation  was  habitually  and 
unconsciously  foul.  Not  even  the  mild  protest  of  one  of 
these  priests  could  check  the  flow  of  richly  imagined  blas- 
phemies which  are  learned  in  the  barracks  during  the  three 
years'  service,  and  in  the  bistros  of  the  back  streets  of 
France  from  Cherbourg  to  Marseilles.  But,  as  a  rule,  the 
priest  did  not  protest,  except  by  the  example  of  keeping  his 
own  tongue  clean.  "What  is  the  use?"  said  one  of  them. 
"  That  kind  of  thing  is  second  nature  to  the  men  and,  after 
all,  it  is  part  of  my  sacrifice." 

Along  the  roads  of  France,  swinging  along  to  dig  a  new 
line  of  trenches,  or  on  a  march  from  a  divisional  headquarters 
to  the  front,  the  soldiers  would  begin  one  of  their  Rabelaisian 
songs  which  have  no  ending,  but  in  verse  after  verse  roam 
further  into  the  purlieus  of  indecent  mirth,  so  that,  as  one 
French  officer  told  me,  "  these  ballads  used  to  make  the 
heather  blush."  After  the  song  would  come  the  great  game 
of  French  soldiers  on  the  march.  The  humorist  of  the  com- 
pany would  remark  upon  the  fatigued  appearance  of  a  sous- 
officier  near  enough  to  hear. 

"  He  is  not  in  good  form  to-day,  our  little  corporal.    Per- 
haps it  has  something  to  do  with  his  week-end  in  Paris !  " 
Another  humorist  would  take  up  the  cue. 


THE     SOLDIERS     OF     FRANCE      301 

"  He  has  a  great  thirst,  our  corporaL  His  first  bottle  of 
wine  just  whets  his  whistle.  At  the  sixth  bottle  he  begins  to 
think  of  drinking  seriously !  " 

"  He  is  a  great  amorist,  too,  they  tell  me,  and  very  pas- 
sionate in  his  love-making !  " 

So  the  ball  is  started  and  goes  rolling  from  one  man  to 
another  in  the  ranks,  growing  in  audacity  and  wallowing 
along  filthy  ways  of  thought,  until  the  sous-officier,  who  had 
been  grinning  under  his  kepi,  suddenly  turns  red  with  anger 
and  growls  out  a  protest. 

"  Taisez-vous,  cochons.     Foutez-moi  la  paix !  " 

All  this  obscenity  of  song  and  speech  spoils  the  heroic  pic- 
ture a  little,  and  yet  does  not  mean  very  much  in  spite  of 
its  outrageous  heights  and  depths.  It  belongs  to  the  char- 
acter of  men  who  have  faced  all  the  facts  of  life  with  frank 
eyes,  and  find  laughter  in  the  grossest  humors  without  losing 
altogether  the  finer  sentiments  of  the  heart  and  little  delica- 
cies of  mind  which  seem  untarnished  by  the  rank  weed  which 
grow  in  human  nature.  Laughter  is  one  of  the  great  needs 
of  the  French  soldier.  In  war  he  must  laugh  or  lose  all 
courage.  So  if  there  is  a  clown  in  the  company  he  may  be 
as  coarse  as  one  of  Shakespeare's  jesters  as  long  as  he  be 
funny,  and  it  is  with  the  boldness  of  one  of  Shakespeare's 
heroes  —  like  Benedick  —  that  a  young  Frenchman,  how- 
ever noble  is  his  blood,  seizes  the  ball  of  wit  and  tosses  it 
higher.  Like  d'Artagnan,  he  is  not  squeamish,  though  a  very 
gallant  gentleman. 

The  spirit  of  d'Artagnan  is  not  dead.  Along  many  roads 
of  France  I  have  met  gay  fellows  whose  courage  has  the 
laughing  quality  of  that  Musketeer,  and  hi^  Gascon  audacity 
which  makes  a  jest  of  death  itself.  In  spite  of  all  the  hor- 
rors of  modern  warfare,  with  its  annihilating  shell-fire  and 
the  monstrous  ruthlessness  of  great  guns,  the  French  soldier 
at  his  best  retains  that  quality  of  youth  which  soars  even 
above  the  muck  and  misery  of  the  trenches. 

The  character  of  a  young  lieutenant  of  artillery,  who 


302  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

came  to  fill  the  place  of  a  poor  fellow  killed  at  the  side  of  his 
caisson,  is  typical  of  innumerable  soldiers  of  France.  He 
presented  himself  with  a  jaunty,  good  humor,  made  a  little 
speech  to  his  battery  which  set  all  the  men  laughing,  and 
then  shook  hands  with  them  one  by  one.  Next  day  he  knew 
each  man  by  name,  used  the  familiar  "  thee  "  and  "  thou  " 
to  them,  and  won  their  hearts  by  his  devil-may-care  manners 
and  the  smile  which  came  from  a  heart  amused  by  life. 
Everything  was  a  joke  to  him.  He  baptized  his  four  guns  by 
absurd  nicknames,  and  had  a  particular  affection  for  old 
"  Bumps,"  which  had  been  scarred  by  several  shells.  The 
captain  called  this  young  gentleman  Lieutenant  Mascot,  be- 
cause he  had  a  lucky  wa}^  with  him.  He  directed  the  aim 
of  his  guns  with  astounding  skill.  A  German  battery  had 
to  shift  very  quickly  five  minutes  after  his  first  shell  had  got 
away,  and  when  the  enemy's  fire  was  silenced,  he  would  call 
out :  "  Don't  chuck  any  more,"  to  the  telephone  operator. 
That  was  his  way  of  ordering  the  cease-fire. 

But  Lieutenant  "  Mascot,"  one  day,  jumped  on  the  top 
of  a  hayrick  to  direct  the  marksmanship  of  his  batter}',  and 
a  moment  later  a  Gentian  shell  burst  over  him  and  scattered 
part  of  the  rick  in  all  directions.  It  was  a  moment  of  an- 
guish for  the  onlookers.  The  captain  became  as  pale  as 
death,  and  the  gunners  went  on  plugging  out  shells  in  an 
automatic  way  with  grief-stricken  faces.  The  telephone 
man  put  his  head  out  of  his  dugout.  He  stared  at  the 
broken  rick.  Beyond  doubt  Monsieur  Mascot  was  as  dead 
as  mutton.  Suddenly,  with  the  receiver  at  his  ear  and  trans- 
figured, he  began  to  shout:  "  Don't  chuck  any  more!  "  It 
was  the  lieutenant  who  had  sent  him  the  usual  order.  Ten 
minutes  later  the  lieutenant  came  back  laughing  gaily  and, 
after  shaking  some  straw  out  of  his  muddy  uniform,  gave  a 
caressing  touch  to  old  "  Bumps,"  who  had  got  the  enemy's 
range  to  perfection.   .   .  .  Then  the  captain  embraced  him. 

The  spirit  of  youth  and  the  spirit  of  faith  cannot  rob  war 
of  its  horrors,  nor  redeem  the  crime  in  which  all  humanity  is 


THE     SOLDIERS     OF     FRANCE      303 

involved,  nor  check  the  slaughter  that  goes  on  incessantly. 
But  they  burn  with  a  bright  light  out  of  the  darkness,  and 
make  the  killing  of  men  less  beastlike.  The  soul  of  France 
has  not  been  destroyed  by  this  war,  and  no  German  guns 
shattering  the  beauty  of  old  towns  and  strewing  the  northern 
fields  with  the  bodies  of  beautiful  young  manhood  could  be 
victorious  over  this  nation,  which,  with  all  her  faults,  her 
incredulities  and  passions,  has  at  the  core  a  spiritual  fervor 
which  lifts  it  above  the  clay  of  life. 

The  soldiers  of  France  have  learned  the  full  range  of  human 
suffering,  so  that  one  cannot  grudge  them  their  hours  of 
laughter,  however  coarse  their  mirth.  There  were  many 
armies  of  men  from  Ypres  to  St.  Mihiel  who  were  put  to 
greater  tasks  of  courage  than  were  demanded  of  the  human 
soul  in  medieval  torture  chambers,  and  they  passed  through 
the  ordeal  with  a  heroism  which  belongs  to  the  splendid  things 
of  history.  As  yet  the  history  has  been  written  only  in  brief 
bulletins  stating  facts  baldly,  as  when  on  a  Saturday  in 
March  of  1915  it  was  stated  that  "  In  Malancourt  Wood, 
between  the  Argonne  and  the  Meuse,  the  enemy  sprayed  one 
of  our  trenches  with  burning  liquid  so  that  it  had  to  be 
abandoned.  The  occupants  were  badly  burned."  That  ofH- 
cial  account  does  not  convey  in  any  way  the  horror  which 
overwhelmed  the  witnesses  of  the  new  German  method  of  at- 
tacking trenches  by  drenching  them  with  inflammatory  liquid. 
A  more  detailed  narrative  of  this  first  attack  b}'  liquid  fire 
was  given  by  one  of  the  soldiers : 

"  It  was  yesterday  evening,  just  as  night  fell,  that  it  hap- 
pened. The  day  had  been  fairly  calm,  with  the  usual  quan- 
tity of  bursting  shells  overhead,  and  nothing  forewarned  us 
of  a  German  attack.  Suddenly  one  of  my  comrades  shouted, 
*  Hallo !  what  is  this  coming  down  on  us?  Any  one  would 
think  it  was  petroleum.'  At  that  time  we  could  not  believe 
the  truth,  but  the  liquid  which  began  to  spray  on  us  was 
certainly  some  kind  of  petroleum.  The  Germans  were  pump- 
ing it  from  hoses.     Our  sub-lieutenant  made  us  put  out  our 


304.  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

pipes.  But  it  was  a  useless  precaution.  A  few  seconds  later 
incendiary  bombs  began  to  rain  down  on  us  and  the  whole 
trench  burst  into  flame.  It  was  like  being  in  hell.  Some  of 
the  men  began  to  scream  terribly,  tearing  off  their  clothes, 
trying  to  beat  out  the  flames.  Others  were  cursing  and  chok- 
ing in  the  hot  vapor  which  stifled  us.  '  Oh,  my  Christ ! ' 
cried  a  comrade  of  mine.  *  They've  blinded  me ! '  In  or- 
der to  complete  their  work  those  German  bandits  took  ad- 
vantage of  our  disturbance  by  advancing  on  the  trench  and 
throwing  burning  torches  into  it.  None  of  us  escaped  that 
torrent  of  fire.  We  had  our  eyebrows  and  eyelashes  burned 
off",  and  clothes  were  burned  in  great  patches  and  our  flesh 
was  sizzling  like  roasting  meat.  But  some  of  us  shot  through 
the  greasy  vapor  which  made  a  cloud  about  us  and  some  of 
those  devils  had  to  pay  for  their  game." 

Although  some  of  them  had  become  harmless  torches  and 
others  lay  charred  to  death,  the  trench  was  not  abandoned 
until  the  second  line  was  ready  to  make  a  counter-attack, 
which  they  did  with  fixed  bayonets,  frenzied  by  the  shrieks 
which  still  came  from  the  burning  pit  where  those  comrades 
lay,  and  flinging  themselves  with  the  ferocity  of  wild  beasts 
upon  the  enemy,  who  fled  after  leaving  three  hundred  dead 
and  wounded  on  the  ground. 

Along  five  hundred  miles  of  front  such  scenes  took  place 
week  after  week,  month  after  month,  from  Artois  to  the 
Argonne,  not  always  with  inflammatory  liquid,  but  with  hand 
grenades,  bombs,  stink-shells,  fire  balls,  smoke  balls,  and 
a  storm  of  shrapnel.  The  deadly  monotony  of  the  life  in 
wet  trenches,  where  men  crouched  in  mud,  cold,  often  hungry, 
in  the  abyss  of  misery,  unable  to  put  their  heads  above 
ground  for  a  single  second  without  risk  of  instant  death, 
was  broken  only  by  the  attacks  and  counter-attacks  when  the 
order  was  given  to  leave  the  trench  and  make  one  of  those 
wild  rushes  for  a  hundred  yards  or  so  in  which  the  risks  of 
death  were  at  heavy  odds  against  the  chances  of  life.  Let 
a  French  soldier  describe  the  scene : 


THE     SOLDIERS     OF     FRANCE      305 

"  Two  sections  of  infantry  have  crouched  since  morning 
on  the  edge  of  a  wood,  waiting  for  the  order  which  hurls  them 
to  the  assault  of  that  stupid  and  formidable  position  which 
is  made  up  of  barbed  wire  in  front  of  the  advanced  trenches. 
Since  midday  the  guns  thunder  without  cessation,  sweeping 
the  ground.  The  Germans  answer  with  great  smashing  blows, 
and  it  is  the  artillery  duel  which  precedes  heroic  work.  Every 
one  knows  that  when  the  guns  are  silent  the  brief  order  which 
will  ring  out  above  the  huddled  men  will  hold  their  promise 
of  death.  Yet  those  men  talk  quietly,  and  there  are  some 
of  them  who  in  this  time  of  danger  find  some  poignant  satis- 
faction, softening  their  anguish,  in  calling  up  the  memory 
of  those  dear  beings  whom  perhaps  they  will  never  see  again. 
With  my  own  ears  I  have  heard  a  great  fair-headed  lad 
expatiate  to  all  his  neighbors  on  the  pretty  ways  of  his  little 
daughter  who  is  eight  years  old.  A  kind  of  dry  twittering 
interrupts  his  discourse.  The  field  telegraph,  fixed  up  in  a 
tree,  has  called  the  lieutenant.  At  the  same  moment  the 
artillery  fired  a  few  single  shots  and  then  was  silent.  The 
officer  drew  his  watch,  let  ten  minutes  pass,  and  then  said, 
'  Get  up,'  in  the  same  tranquil  and  commonplace  tones  with 
which  a  corporal  says  '  attention '  on  parade  ground.  It 
was  the  order  to  go  forward.  Every  one  understood  and 
rose  up,  except  five  men  whom  a  nervous  agony  chained  to 
their  ground.  They  had  been  demoralized  by  their  long  wait 
and  weakened  by  their  yearnings  for  the  abandoned  homes, 
and  were  in  the  grip  of  fear.  The  lieutenant  —  a  reservist 
who  had  a  little  white  in  his  beard  —  looked  at  the  five  de- 
faulters without  anger.  Then  he  drew,  not  his  sword  from 
its  scabbard,  but  a  cigarette  from  its  case,  lighted  it,  and  said 
simply : 

"'Ehbien?' 

"  Who  can  render  the  intonation  of  that  *  Eh  bien '  ? 
What  actor  could  imitate  it.?  In  that  '  Eh  bien?  '  there  was 
neither  astonishment  nor  severity,  nor  brusque  recall  to  duty, 
but  rather  the  compassionate  emotion  of  an  elder  brother  be- 


306  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     [WAR 

fore  a  youngster's  weakness  which  he  knows  is  only  a  passing 
mood.  That  '  Eh  bien  ?  ' —  how  he  put  into  it,  this  elder  of 
ours,  so  much  pitiful  authority,  such  sweetness  of  command, 
such  brotherly  confidence,  and  also  such  strength  of  will. 
The  five  men  sprang  up.  .  .  .  And  you  know  that  we  took 
the  village  after  having  fought  from  house  to  house.  At 
the  angle  of  two  alleys  the  lieutenant  was  killed,  and  that  is 
why  the  two  notes  of  his  '  Eh  bien?  '  will  always  echo  in  my 
heart  as  the  fine  call  of  an  unrecorded  heroism.  It  appears 
that  this  war  must  be  impersonal  —  it  is  the  political  formula 
of  the  time  —  and  it  is  forbidden  to  mention  names.  Eh 
bien.''     Have  I  named  any  one.''  " 

Out  of  the  monotonous  narratives  of  trench-warfare, 
stories  more  horrible  than  the  nightmare  phantasies  of  Edgar 
Allan  Poe,  stories  of  men  buried  alive  by  sapping  and  mining, 
and  of  men  torn  to  bits  by  a  subterranean  explosion  which 
leaves  one  man  alive  amidst  the  htter  of  his  comrades'  limbs 
so  that  he  goes  mad  and  laughs  at  the  frightful  humor  of 
death,  come  now  and  then  to  reveal  the  meaning  of  this  mod- 
ern warfare  which  is  hidden  by  censors  behind  decent  veils. 
It  is  a  French  lieutenant  who  tells  this  story,  which  is  heroic 
as  well  as  horrid : 

"  We  were  about  to  tidy  up  a  captured  trench.  At  the 
barrier  of  sand  bags  which  closed  up  one  end  of  it,  two 
sentinels  kept  a  sharp  lookout  so  that  we  could  work  in  peace 
of  mind.  Suddenly  from  a  tunnel,  hidden  by  a  fold  in  the 
ground,  an  avalanche  of  bombs  was  hurled  over  our  heads, 
and  before  we  could  collect  our  wits  ten  of  our  men  had 
fallen  dead  and  wounded,  all  hugger-mugger.  I  opened  my 
mouth  to  shout  a  word  of  command  when  a  pebble,  knocked 
by  a  piece  of  shell,  struck  me  on  the  head,  and  I  fell,  quite 
dazed.  But  my  unconsciousness  only  lasted  a  second  or 
two.  A  bursting  shell  tore  off  my  left  hand  and  I  was  awak- 
ened by  the  pain  of  it.  Wlien  I  opened  my  eyes  and  groaned, 
I  saw  the  Germans  jump  across  the  sand-bags  and  invade  the 
trench.     There  were  twenty  of  them.     They  had  no  rifles, 


THE     SOLDIERS     OF     FRANCE      307 

but  each  man  carried  a  sort  of  wicker  basket  filled  with 
bombs.  I  looked  round  to  the  left.  All  our  men  had  fled 
except  those  who  were  lying  in  their  blood.  And  the  Ger- 
mans were  coming  on.  Another  slip  or  two  and  they  would 
have  been  on  the  top  of  me.  At  that  moment  one  of  my  men, 
wounded  in  the  forehead,  wounded  in  the  chin,  and  with  his 
face  all  in  a  pulp  of  blood,  sat  up,  snatched  at  a  bag  of  hand 
grenades,  and  shouted  out: 

"  '  Arise,  ye  dead ! ' 

"  He  got  on  his  knees,  and  began  to  fling  his  bombs  into 
the  crowd  of  Germans.  At  his  call,  the  other  wounded  men 
struggled  up.  Two  Avith  broken  legs  grasped  their  rifles  and 
opened  fire.  The  hero  with  his  left  arm  hanging  limp, 
grabbed  a  bayonet.  When  I  stood  up,  with  all  my  senses 
about  me  now,  some  of  the  Germans  were  wounded  and  others 
were  scrambling  out  of  the  trench  in  a  panic.  But  with  his 
back  to  the  sand-bags  stayed  a  German  Unter-offizier,  enor- 
mous, sweating,  apoplectic  with  rage,  who  fired  two  revolver 
shots  in  our  direction.  The  man  who  had  first  organized 
the  defense  of  the  trench  —  the  hero  of  that  '  Arise,  ye 
dead ! ' —  received  a  shot  full  in  the  throat  and  fell.  But 
the  man  who  held  the  bayonet  and  who  had  dragged  himself 
from  corpse  to  corpse,  staggered  up  at  four  feet  from  the 
sand-bags,  missed  death  from  two  shots,  and  plunged  his 
weapon  into  the  German's  throat.  The  position  was  saved, 
and  it  was  as  though  the  dead  had  really  risen." 

The  French  soldier,  as  I  have  said,  is  strangely  candid  in 
the  analysis  of  his  emotions,  and  is  not  ashamed  of  confess- 
ing his  fears.  I  remember  a  young  lieutenant  of  dragoons 
who  told  me  of  the  terror  which  took  possession  of  him  when 
the  enemy's  shrapnel  first  burst  above  his  head. 

"  As  every  shell  came  whizzing  past,  and  then  burst,  I 
ducked  my  head  and  wondered  whether  it  was  this  shell  which 
was  going  to  kill  me,  or  the  next.  The  shrapnel  bullets  came 
singing  along  with  a  '  Tue !  Tue! '  Ah,  that  is  a  bad  song! 
But  most  of  all  I  feared  the  rifle  shots  of  an  infantry  attack. 


308  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

I  could  not  help  glancing  sideways  at  the  sound  of  that 
'  Zip  !  zip  !  zip  ! '  There  was  something  menacing  and  deadly 
in  it,  and  one  cannot  dodge  the  death  which  comes  with  one 
of  these  little  bullets.     It  is  horrible !  " 

And  yet  this  man,  who  had  an  abscess  in  his  leg  after  riding 
for  weeks  in  his  saddle  and  who  had  fought  every  day  and 
nearly  every  night  for  a  fortnight,  was  distressed  because  he 
had  to  retire  from  his  squadron  for  a  while  until  his  leg  healed. 
In  five  days  at  the  most  he  would  go  back  again  to  hell  — 
hating  the  horror  of  it  all,  fearing  those  screeching  shells 
and  hissing  bullets,  yet  preferring  to  die  for  France  rather 
than  remain  alive  and  inactive  when  his  comrades  were  fight- 
ing. 

Imagine  the  life  of  one  of  these  cavalrymen,  as  I  heard  it 
described  by  many  of  them  in  the  beginning  of  the  war. 

They  were  sent  forward  on  a  reconnaissance  —  a  patrol  of 
six  or  eight.  The  enemy  was  known  to  be  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. It  was  necessary  to  get  into  touch  with  him,  to  dis- 
cover his  strength,  to  kill  some  of  his  outposts,  and  then  to 
fall  back  to  the  division  of  cavalry  and  report  the  facts.  Not 
an  easy  task!  It  quite  often  happened  that  only  one  man 
out  of  six  came  back  to  tell  the  tale,  surprised  at  his  own 
luck.     The  German  scouts  had  clever  tricks. 

One  day  near  Bethune,  they  played  one  of  them  —  a  favor- 
ite one.  A  friend  of  mine  led  six  of  his  dragoons  towards 
a  village  where  Uhlans  had  been  seen.  They  became  visible 
at  a  turn  of  the  road,  and  after  firing  a  few  shots  with  their 
carbines  turned  tail  and  fled.  The  French  dragoons  gave 
chase,  across  some  fields  and  round  the  edge  of  a  quiet  wood. 
Suddenly  at  this  point  the  Uhlans  reined  in  their  horses  and 
out  of  the  wood  came  the  sudden  shattering  fire  of  a  German 
quick-firer.  Fortunately  it  was  badly  aimed,  and  my  friend 
with  his  six  dragoons  was  able  to  gallop  away  from  that  in- 
fernal machine  which  had  so  cleverly  ambushed  them. 

There  was  no  rest  for  the  cavalry  in  those  first  days  of  the 
war.     The  infantry  had  its  bivouac  every  day,  there  was  rest 


THE     SOLDIERS     OF     FRANCE      309 

sometimes  in  the  trenches,  but  the  cavalry  had  to  push  on 
always  upon  new  adventures  to  check  the  enemy  in  his  ad- 
vance. 

A  young  Russian  officer  in  the  French  dragoons  told  me 
that  he  had  been  fighting  since  the  beginning  of  the  war 
with  never  more  than  three  hours'  sleep  a  night  and  often 
no  sleep  at  all.  On  many  nights  those  brief  hours  of  rest 
were  in  beetroot  fields  in  which  the  German  shrapnel  had  been 
searching  for  victims,  and  he  awakened  now  and  then  to  listen 
to  the  well-known  sound  of  that  singing  death  before  dosing 
off  again. 

It  was  "  Boot  and  saddle  "  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
before  the  dawn.  It  was  cold  then  —  a  cold  which  made  men 
tremble  as  with  an  ague.  A  cup  of  black  coffee  was  served, 
and  a  piece  of  bread. 

The  Russian  officer  of  French  dragoons,  who  has  lived  in 
British  colonies,  saw  a  vision  then  —  a  false  mirage  —  of  a 
British  breakfast.  It  was  the  thought  of  grilled  bloaters, 
followed  by  ham  and  eggs,  which  unmanned  him  for  a  mo- 
ment. Ten  minutes  later  the  cavalry  was  moving  away.  A 
detachment  was  sent  forward  on  a  mission  of  peril,  to  guard 
a  bridge.  There  was  a  bridge  near  Bethune  one  night 
guarded  by  a  little  patrol.  It  was  only  when  the  last 
man  had  been  killed  that  the  Germans  made  their  way 
across. 

Through  the  darkness  these  mounted  men  leaned  forward 
over  their  saddles,  peering  for  the  enemy,  listening  for  any 
jangle  of  stirrup  or  clink  of  bit.  On  that  night  there  came 
a  whisper  from  the  cavalry  leader. 

"  They  are  coming !  .  .  .  Quiet  there !  " 

A  file  of  dark  shadows  moved  forward.  The  dragoons 
swung  their  carbines  forward.  There  was  a  volley  of  shots 
before  the  cry  rang  out. 

"  Cessez  feu  !     Cessez  feu  !  " 

The  cry  had  been  heard  before  from  German  officers  speak- 
ing excellent  French,  but  this  time  there  was  no  treachery  in 


310  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

it.     The  shadows  who  moved  forward  through  the  night  were 
Frenchmen  changing  from  one  trench  to  another. 

The  infantryman  had  a  hard  time,  too.  It  was  true  that 
theoreticalh^  he  might  sometimes  snatch  a  few  hours  of  sleep 
in  a  trench  or  out  in  an  open  field,  but  actually  the  coldness 
of  the  night  was  often  an  acute  agony,  which  kept  him  awake. 
The  food  question  was  a  difficult  one.  When  there  was  heavy 
fighting  to  be  done,  and  rapid  marching,  the  provisions  be- 
came as  theoretical  as  the  hours  of  sleep. 

I  heard  the  graphic  recital  of  a  sergeant  of  infantry,  which 
was  typical  of  many  others  in  those  early  days. 

His  section  awakened  one  morning  near  Armentieres  with 
a  famishing  hunger,  to  find  an  old  peasant  woman  coming  up 
with  a  great  barrow-load  of  potatoes. 

"  These  are  for  your  breakfast,  my  little  ones,"  she  said. 
"  See,  I  have  some  faggots  here.  If  you  care  to  make  a  fire 
there  will  be  roast  potatoes  for  you  in  twenty  minutes." 

"  Madame,  you  are  too  kind,"  said  my  sergeant.  He 
helped  to  make  the  fire,  to  pack  it  with  potatoes.  He  added 
his  eloquence  to  that  of  his  comrades  when  the  fragrant  smell 
made  his  nostrils  quiver.  And  just  as  the  potatoes  were 
nearly  done  up  came  a  motor-c3'clist  with  orders  that  the 
section  was  to  move  on  immediately  to  a  place  fifteen  kilo- 
meters away.  It  was  a  tragedy!  There  were  tearful  fare- 
wells to  those  potatoes.  Fifteen  kilometers  away  there  was 
a  chateau,  and  a  friendly  lady,  and  a  good  cook  who  prepared 
a  dinner  of  excellent  roast  beef  and  most  admirable  fried 
potatoes.  And  just  as  the  lady  came  to  say  "  Mes  amis,  le 
diner  est  servi,"  up  panted  a  Belgian  cyclist  with  the  news 
that  German  cavalry  was  advancing  in  strong  force  accom- 
panied by  500  motor-cars  with  mitrailleuses  and  many  motor- 
cycles, and  a  battery  of  horse  artillery.  It  was  another 
tragedy !  And  the  third  took  place  sixteen  hours  later, 
when  this  section  of  infantry  which  had  been  marching  most 
of  that  time  lay  down  on  an  open  field  to  sleep  without  a 
supper. 


THE     SOLDIERS     OF     FRANCE      311 

Yet  — "  Nothing  matters  except  the  rain,"  said  a  friend 
of  mine  in  the  French  artillery.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders 
as  he  spoke,  and  an  expression  of  disgust  came  upon  his 
bearded  face.  He  was  thinking,  perhaps,  of  his  beloved  guns 
which  lose  their  mobility  in  the  quagmires  of  the  fields.  But 
the  rain  is  bad  also  for  men  and  beasts.  It  takes  eight  days 
for  a  French  overcoat  to  get  thoroughly  dry  after  a  bad  wet- 
ting. Even  the  cavalryman's  cloak  is  a  poor  shield  against 
the  driving  rain,  and  at  night  wet  straw  or  a  water  pool  in  a 
trench  is  not  a  pleasant  kind  of  bed. 

"  War,"  said  one  of  the  French  officers  with  whom  I  have 
chatted,  "  is  not  only  fighting,  as  some  people  seem  to  think. 
The  physical  discomforts  are  more  dangerous  to  one's  health 
than  shrapnel.  And  it  is  —  par  example  —  the  impossi- 
bility of  changing  one's  linen  for  weeks  and  weeks  which 
saps  one's  moral  fiber  more  than  the  risk  of  losing  one's 
head." 

The  risk  of  death  is  taken  lightly  by  all  these  men.  It  is 
curious,  indeed,  that  almost  every  French  soldier  has  a  con- 
viction that  he  will  die  in  battle  sooner  or  later.  In  mo- 
ments of  imagination  he  sees  his  own  corpse  lying  out  in  the 
field,  and  is  full  of  pity  for  his  wife  and  children.  But  it 
does  not  destroy  his  courage  or  his  gift  of  gaiety  or  his  de- 
sire to  fight  for  France  or  his  sublime  endurance  of  pain. 

The  wounded  men  who  pour  down  from  the  battlefields 
are  incredibly  patient.  I  have  seen  them  stand  on  a  wounded 
leg  to  give  their  places  in  a  railway-carriage  to  peasant 
women  with  their  babies.  They  have  used  their  bandaged 
hands  to  lift  up  the  baskets  of  refugees.  They  forget  their 
wounds  in  remembering  their  adventures,  and  the  simple 
soldier  describes  his  combats  with  a  vivid  eloquence  not  to 
be  attained  by  the  British  Tommy,  who  has  no  gift  of  words. 

The  French  soldier  has  something  in  his  blood  and  strain 
which  uplifts  him  as  a  fighting  man,  and  gives  him  the  quality 
of  chivalry.  Peasant  or  bourgeois  or  of  patrician  stock,  he 
has  always  the  fine  manners  of  a  gentleman,  and  to  know 


312  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

him  in  the  field  is  to  love  the  humor  and  temper  of  the  man. 
Yet  there  were  some  men  in  the  French  army,  as  in  our 
own,  who  showed  how  thin  is  the  veneer  which  hides  the  civ- 
ilized being  from  the  primitive  savage,  to  whom  there  is  a 
joy  in  killing,  like  the  wild  animal  who  hunts  his  prey  in  the 
jungles  and  desert  places.     One  such  man  comes  to  my  mind 
now.     He  was  in  the  advanced  lines  near  Albert,  but  was 
always  restless  in  the  trench.     As  soon  as  darkness  came  he 
would  creep  out  and  crawl  on  his  belly  across  the  swampy 
ground  to  a  deep  hole  dug  by  the  explosion  of  a  marmite 
quite  close  to  the  German  lines.     Here  he  found  a  hiding- 
place  from  which  he  could  take  "  pot  shots  "  at  any  German 
soldiers  who  under  cover  of  darkness  left  their  burroAvs  to 
drag  in  the  bodies  of  their  comrades  or  to  gather  bits  of 
wood  with  which  to  make  a  floor  to  their  trenches.     They 
were  quite  unconscious  of  that  man  in  the  hole  staring  down 
the  length  of  his  rifle,  and  listening  intently  for  any  sound 
which  would  betray  an  enemy.     Every  night  he  shot  two  or 
three  men,  perfectly  patient  in  his  long  cold  vigil  if  he  could 
have  that  "  luck."     Then  at  dawn  he  would  crawl  back  again, 
bringing  a  helmet  or  two  with  him,  a  cartridge  belt  or  some 
other  trophy  as  a  sign  of  his  success.     One  night  he  shot  a 
man  who  had  stumbled  quite  close  to  his  pit,  and  some  great 
instinct  of  pity  for  his  victim  stirred  in  him,  so  that  he  risked 
a  double  journey   over  the  open  ground  to   fetch  a  spade 
with   which   he   buried   the   man.     But    soon    afterwards   he 
added  to  his  "  bag  "  of  human  life.     In  his  own  trench  he 
spoke  very  little  and  always  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  the  hour 
when  he  could  crawl  out  again  like  a  Red  Indian  in  search  of 
scalps.     He  was  the  primitive  man,  living  like  one  of  his 
ancestors  of  the  Stone  Age,  except  for  the  fire-stick  with 
which  he  was  armed  and  the  knowledge  of  the  arts  and  beauties 
of  modern  life  in  his  hunter's  head.     For  he  was  not  a  French 
Canadian  from  the  backwoods,  or  an  Alpine  chasseur  from 
lonely  mountains,  but  a  well-known  lawyer  from  a  French 
provincial  town,  with  the  blood  and  education  of  a  gentle- 


THE     SOLDIERS     OF     FRANCE      313 

man.  As  a  queer  character  this  man  is  worth  remembering 
by  those  who  study  the  psychology  of  war,  but  he  is  not  typi- 
cal of  the  soldiers  of  France,  who  in  the  mass  have  no  blood- 
lust,  and  hate  butchering  their  fellow  beings,  except  in  their 
moments  of  mad  excitement,  made  up  of  fear  as  well  as  of 
rage,  when  to  the  shout  of  "  En  avant !  "  they  leap  out  of  the 
trenches  and  charge  a  body  of  Germans,  stabbing  and  slashing 
with  their  bayonets,  clubbing  men  to  death  with  the  butt- 
ends  of  their  rifles,  and  for  a  few  minutes  of  devilish  intox- 
ication, with  the  smell  of  blood  in  their  nostrils,  and  with 
blood-shot  eyes,  rejoicing  in  slaughter. 

"  We  did  not  listen  to  the  cries  of  surrender  or  to  the 
beseeching  plaints  of  the  wounded,"  said  a  French  soldier, 
describing  one  of  these  scenes.  "  We  had  no  use  for  prison- 
ers and  on  both  sides  there  was  no  quarter  given  in  this 
Argonne  Wood.  Better  than  fixed  bayonets  was  an  unfixed 
bayonet  grasped  as  a  dagger.  Better  than  any  bayonet  was  a 
bit  of  iron  or  a  broken  gun-stock,  or  a  sharp  knife.  In  that 
hand-to-hand  fighting  there  was  no  shooting  but  only  the 
struggling  of  interlaced  bodies,  with  fists  and  claws  grabbing 
for  each  other's  throats.  I  saw  men  use  teeth  and  bite  their 
enemy  to  death  with  their  jaws,  gnawing  at  their  windpipes. 
This  is  modern  war  in  the  twentieth  century  —  or  one  scene 
in  it  —  and  it  is  only  afterwards,  if  one  escapes  with  life, 
that  one  is  stricken  with  the  thought  of  all  that  horror  which 
has  debased  us  as  low  as  the  beasts  —  lower  than  beasts, 
because  we  have  an  intelligence  and  a  soul  to  teach  us  better 
things." 

The  soldiers  of  France  have  an  intelligence  which  makes 
them,  or  most  of  them,  revolt  from  the  hideous  work  they 
have  to  do  and  cry  out  against  this  infamy  which  has  been 
thrust  upon  them  by  a  nation  which  compelled  the  war. 
Again  and  again,  for  nine  months  and  more,  I  have  heard 
French  soldiers  ask  the  question,  "  Why  are  such  things 
allowed  by  God?  What  is  the  use  of  civilization  if  it  leads 
to  this.''  "     And,  upon  my  soul,  I  could  not  answer  them. 


314.  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

The  mobilization  of  all  the  manhood  of  France,  from  boys 
of  eighteen  and  nineteen  to  men  of  forty-five,  was  a  demon- 
stration of  national  unity  and  of  a  great  people  rising  as  one 
man  in  self-defense,  which  to  the  Englishman  was  an  astound- 
ing and  overwhelming  phenomenon.  Though  I  knew  the 
meaning  of  it  and  it  had  no  real  surprises  for  me,  I  could 
never  avoid  the  sense  of  wonderment  when  I  met  young  ansto- 
crats  marching  in  the  ranks  as  common  soldiers,  professors, 
poets,  priests  and  painters,  as  hairy  and  dirty  as  the  poilus 
who  had  come  from  the  farms  and  the  meat  markets,  million- 
aires and  the  sons  of  millionaires  driving  automobiles  as  mil- 
itary chauffeurs  or  as  orderlies  to  officers  upon  whom  they 
waited  respectfully,  forbidden  to  sit  at  table  with  them  in 
public  places,  and  having  to  "  keep  their  place  "  at  all  times. 
Even  now  I  am  astonished  at  a  system  which  makes  young 
merchants  abandon  their  businesses  at  a  moment's  notice  to 
serve  in  the  ranks,  and  great  employers  of  labor  go  marching 
with  their  own  laborers,  giving  only  a  backward  glance  at 
the  ruin  of  their  property  and  their  trade.  There  is  some- 
thing magnificent  in  this,  but  all  one's  admiration  of  a  uni- 
versal military  service  which  abolishes  all  distinctions  of  class 
and  wealth  —  after  all  there  were  not  many  embusques,  or 
privileged  exemptes  —  need  not  blind  one  to  abuses  and 
unnecessary  hardships  inflicted  upon  large  numbers  of  men. 
Abuses  there  have  been  in  France,  as  was  inevitable  in  a  sys- 
tem like  this,  and  this  general  call  to  the  colors  inflicted  an 
enormous  amount  of  suffering  upon  men  who  would  have  suf- 
fered more  willingly  if  it  had  been  to  serve  France  usefully. 
But  in  thousands  and  hundreds  of  thousands  of  cases  there 
was  no  useful  purpose  served.  General  Joffre  had  as  many 
men  as  he  could  manage  along  the  fighting  lines.  More  would 
have  choked  up  his  lines  of  communication  and  the  whole 
machinery  of  the  war.  But  behind  the  front  there  were  mil- 
lions of  men  in  reserve,  and  behind  them  vast  bodies  of  men 
idling  in  depots,  crowded  into  barracks,  and  eating  their 
hearts   out   for  lack   of   work.     They   had  been   forced   to 


THE     SOLDIERS     OF     FRANCE      315 

abandon  their  homes  and  their  professions,  and  yet  during  the 
whole  length  of  the  war  they  found  no  higher  duty  to  do  for 
France  than  sweep  out  a  barrack  yard  or  clean  out  a  military 
latrine.  It  was  especially  hard  upon  the  reformes  —  men  of 
delicate  health  who  had  been  exempted  from  their  military 
service  in  their  youth  but  who  now  were  re-examined  by  the 
Conseil  de  Revision  and  found  "  good  for  auxiliary  service  in 
time  of  war." 

To  the  old  soldiers  who  have  done  their  three  years  a 
return  to  the  barracks  is  not  so  distressing.  They  know  what 
the  life  is  like  and  the  rude  discipline  of  it  does  not  shock 
them.  But  to  the  reforme,  sent  to  barracks  for  the  first  time 
at  thirty-five  or  forty  years  of  age,  it  is  a  moral  sacrifice 
which  is  almost  unendurable.  After  the  grief  of  parting 
from  his  wife  and  children  and  the  refinements  of  his  home, 
he  arrives  at  the  barracks  inspired  by  the  best  sentiments, 
happy  in  the  idea  of  being  useful  to  his  country,  of  serving 
like  other  Frenchmen.  But  when  he  has  gone  through  the 
great  gate,  guarded  by  soldiers  with  loaded  rifles,  when  he 
has  changed  his  civil  clothes  for  an  old  and  soiled  uniform, 
when  he  has  found  that  his  bed  is  a  filthy  old  mattress  in  a 
barn  where  hundreds  of  men  are  quartered,  when  he  has 
received  for  the  first  time  certain  brief  and  harsh  orders 
from  a  som-officier,  and  finally,  when  he  goes  out  again  into 
the  immense  courtyard,  surrounded  by  high  gray  walls,  a 
strange  impression  of  solitude  takes  hold  of  him,  and  he  finds 
himself  abandoned,  broken  and  imprisoned. 

Many  of  these  reformes  are  men  of  delicate  health,  suffer- 
ing from  heart  or  chest  complaints,  but  in  these  barracks 
there  is  no  comfort  for  the  invalid.  I  know  one  of  them  in 
which  nearly  seven  hundred  men  slept  together  in  a  great 
garret,  with  only  one  window  and  a  dozen  narrow  skylights, 
so  that  the  atmosphere  was  suffocating  above  their  rows  of 
straw  trusses,  rarely  changed  and  of  indescribable  filth.  But 
what  hurts  the  spirits  of  men  who  have  attained  good 
positions  in  civil  life,  who  have  said  to  this  man  "  Go !  "  and 


S16  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

he  goeth,  and  to  that  man  "  Come !  "  and  he  cometh,  is  to  find 
his  position  reversed  and  to  be  under  the  orders  of  a  corporal 
or  sergeant  with  a  touch  of  the  bully  about  him,  happy  to 
dominate  men  more  educated  and  more  intelligent  than  him- 
self.    I  can  quote  an  example  of  an  aristocrat  who,  in  spite 
of  his  splendid  chateau  in  the  country,  was  mobilized  as  a 
simple  soldat.     At  the  barracks  this  gentleman  found  that 
his  corporal  was  a  laborer  at  the  village  where  the  old  cha- 
teau stands.     In  order  to  amuse  himself  the  corporal  made 
M.  le  Chatclain  do  all  the  dirtiest  jobs,  such  as  sweeping  the 
rooms,  cleaning  the  staircases  and  the  lavatories.     At  the 
same  barracks  was  a  number  of  priests,  including  an  archr- 
ipretre,  who  was  about  to  become  a  bishop.     Even  the  most 
ferocious  anti-clericals  in  the  caserne  had  to  acknowledge  that 
these  men  were  excellent  soldiers  and  good  comrades.     They 
submitted  to  all  inconveniences,  did  any  task  as  though  it 
were  a  religious  duty,  and  submitted  to  the  rough  life  among 
men  of  foul  speech  with  a  wonderful  resignation.     But  that 
did  not  save  them  from  the  tyranny  of  a  sous-officer,  who 
called  them  the  hardest  names  his  tongue  could  find  when 
they  made  any  faiuv  pas  in  their  barrack  drill,  and  swore  as 
terribly  as  those  in  Flanders  when  they  did  not  obey  his  com- 
mands with  the  lightning  rapidity  of  soldiers  who  have  noth- 
ing more  to  learn.     These  cases  could  be  multiplied  by  hun- 
dreds of  thousands,  and  for  men  of  refinement  there  was  a 
long  torture  in  their  barracks  when  there  was  no  mental  satis- 
faction in  useful  work  for  France.     Yet  their  sacrifice  has  not 
been  in  vain  perhaps.     "  They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and 
wait,"  and  they  proved  by  their  submission  to  the  system  a 
loyalty  and  a  patriotism  equal  to  those  who  went  into  the 
trenches.     They,  too,  who  know  what  war  means  —  for  war 
is  not  only  at  the  front  —  will  come  back  with  a  deep-rooted 
hatred    of   militarism    which   will   make    it   more   difficult   in 
future  for  politicians  who  breathe  out  fire  and  slaughter  and 
urge  a  people  to  take  up  arms  for  any  other  cause  than  that 
of  self-defense. 


THE     SOLDIERS     OF     FRANCE      317 

It  is  curious  how  long  the  song  of  La  Marseillaise  has  held 
its  power.  It  has  been  like  a  leit-motif  through  all  the  drama 
of  this  war  in  France,  through  the  spirit  of  the  French  people 
waiting  patiently  for  victory,  hiding  their  tears  for  the  dead, 
consoling  their  wounded  and  their  cripples,  and  giving  their 
youngest  and  their  manhood  to  the  God  of  War.  What  is 
the  magic  in  this  tune  so  that  if  one  hear  it  even  on  a  cheap 
piano  in  an  auxiliary  hospital,  or  scraped  thinly  on  a  violin 
in  a  courtyard  of  Paris,  it  thrills  one  horribly?  On  the  night 
of  August  2,  when  I  traveled  from  Paris  to  Nancy,  it  seemed 
to  me  that  France  sang  La  Marseillaise  —  the  strains  of  it 
rose  from  every  wayside  station  —  and  that  out  of  its  grave- 
yards across  those  dark  hills  and  fields,  with  a  thin  luminous 
line  on  the  far  horizon  the  ghosts  of  slain  soldiers  rose  to  sing 
it  to  those  men  who  were  going  to  fight  again  for  liberty. 

Since  then  it  has  always  been  in  my  ears.  I  heard  it  that 
night  in  Amiens  when  the  French  army  was  in  retreat,  and 
when  all  the  young  men  of  the  city,  not  yet  called  to  the 
colors  because  of  their  youth,  escaped  hurriedly  on  truck 
trains  before  a  bridge  was  blown  up,  so  that  if  they  stayed 
they  would  be  prisoners  in  German  hands.  It  was  these  boys 
who  sang  it,  with  fresh,  clear  voices,  joining  in  a  fine  chorus, 
though  not  far  away  the  soldiers  of  France  were  limping 
through  the  night  from  abandoned  positions : 

Entendez-vous,  dans  les  campagn£s, 
Mugir  ces  feroces  soldats? 
lis  viennent  jusque  dans  nos  bras 
Egorger  nos  fils,  nos  compagnes! 
Aux  armes,  citoyens! 
Formez  vos  hataillons! 
Marchons!  .  .  . 

I  listened  to  those  boys'  voices,  and  something  of  the 
history  of  the  song  put  its  spell  upon  me  then.  There  was 
the  passion  of  old  heroism  in  it,  of  old  and  bloody  deeds, 


318  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

with  the  wild  wars  of  revolution  and  lust  for  liberty.  Rouget 
de  Lisle  wrote  it  one  night  at  Strasburg,  when  he  was  drunk, 
says  the  legend.  But  it  was  not  the  drunkenness  of  wine 
which  inspired  his  soul.  It  was  the  drunkenness  of  that  year 
1792,  when  the  desire  of  liberty  made  Frenchmen  mad.  .  .  . 
The  men  of  Marseilles  came  singing  it  into  Paris.  The 
Parisians  heard  and  caught  up  the  strains.  It  marched  to 
the  victories  of  the  Republican  armies.  "  We  fought  one 
against  ten,"  wrote  a  French  general,  "  but  La  Marseillaise 
was  on  our  side."  "  Send  us,"  wrote  another  general,  "  ten 
thousand  men  and  one  copy  of  La  Marseillaise,  and  I  will 
answer  for  victory." 

A  hundred  years  and  more  have  passed  since  then,  but  the 
tune  has  not  gone  stale.  Again  and  again  in  the  Orders  of 
the  Day  one  reads  that  "  the  company  went  into  action  sing- 
ing La  Marseillaise,  Lieutenant  X  was  still  singing  when, 
after  carrying  the  enemy's  position,  he  was  shot  in  the 
throat ;  "  or  "  the  Chasseurs  Alpins  climbed  the  ridge  to  the 
song  of  La  Marseillaise." 

The  spirit  of  it  runs  through  the  narrative  of  a  French 
infantryman  who  described  an  action  in  the  Argonne,  where 
his  regiment  held  a  village  heavily  attacked  by  the  enemy. 
There  was  street-fighting  of  the  fiercest  kind,  and  hand-to- 
hand  combats  in  the  houses  and  even  in  the  cellars.  "  Blood," 
he  wrote,  "  ran  in  the  gutters  like  water  on  a  rainy  day." 
The  French  soldiers  were  being  hard  pressed  and  reserves 
came  with  their  new  regiments  in  the  nick  of  time. 

"  Suddenly  the  Marseillaise  rang  out  while  the  bugles  of 
the  three  regiments  sounded  the  charge.  From  where  we 
stood  by  the  fire  of  burning  houses  we  could  see  the  action 
very  clearly,  and  never  again  shall  I  see  anything  more  fan- 
tastic than  those  thousands  of  red  legs  charging  in  close 
ranks.  The  gray  legs  began  to  tremble  (they  do  not  love 
the  bayonet),  and  the  Marseillaise  continued  with  the  bugles, 
while  our  guns  vomited  without  a  pause.  Our  infantry  had 
closed  with  the  enemy.     Not  a  shot  now,  but  cold  steel.  .  .  . 


THE     SOLDIERS     OF     FRANCE      319 

Suddenly  the  charge  ceased  its  bugle  notes.  They  sounded 
instead  the  call  to  the  flag.  Au  drapeau!  Our  flag  was  cap- 
tured! Instinctively  we  ceased  fire,  thunderstruck.  Then 
very  loud  and  strong  the  Marseillaise  rang  out  above  the 
music  of  the  bugles,  calling  Au  drapeau  again  and  again. 
We  saw  the  awful  melee,  the  struggle  to  the  death  with  that 
song  above  all  the  shouting  and  the  shrieks.  .  .  .  You  who 
imagine  you  know  La  Marseillaise  because  you  have  heard  it 
played  at  prize  distributions  must  acknowledge  your  error. 
In  order  to  know  it  you  must  have  heard  it  as  I  have  tried  to 
tell  you,  when  blood  is  flowing  and  the  flag  of  France  is  in 
danger." 

To  this  soldier  it  is  an  intolerable  thought  that  he  should 
hear  the  hymn  of  victory  sung  at  a  "  prize  distribution,"  or 
in  a  music-hall  scented  with  the  perfume  of  women.  But 
even  in  a  music-hall  in  Paris,  or  in  a  third-rate  cabaret  in  a 
provincial  town,  the  song  may  be  heard  with  all  its  magic. 
I  heard  it  one  night  in  such  a  place,  where  the  song  was 
greater  than  the  singer.  French  poilus  were  in  the  hall, 
crippled  or  convalescent,  after  their  day  of  battle,  and  with 
their  women  around  them  they  stood  at  attention  while  the 
national  hymn  was  sung.  They  knew  the  meaning  of  it,  and 
the  women  knew.  Some  of  them  became  quite  pale,  with 
others  faces  flushed.  Their  eyes  were  grave,  but  with  a  queer 
fire  in  them  as  the  verses  rang  out.  ...  It  seemed  to  me  as 
I  stood  there  in  this  hall,  filled  with  stale  smoke  and  woman's 
scent,  that  I  smelt  blood,  and  gunpowder,  and  heard 
through  the  music  of  the  Marseillaise  the  shouts  of  hoarse 
voices,  charging  with  the  bayonet,  the  screams  of  wounded, 
and  then  the  murmur  of  a  battlefield  when  dawn  comes,  light- 
ing the  tattered  flags  of  France. 

The  soldiers  of  France  in  that  strange  land  called  La-has 
had  one  consolation  which  should  have  helped  them  a  little 
—  did  help  them,  I  think,  more  than  a  little  —  to  endure  the 
almost  intolerable  misery  of  their  winter  quarters  at  the  front 
in  one  of  the  wettest  half  years  within  living  memory.     They 


320  THE     SOUL    OF    THE    WAR 

stood  in  the  water-logged  trenches,  shivering  and  coughing, 
they  tramped  through  cotton-wool  mists  with  heavy  overcoats 
which  had  absorbed  many  quarts  of  rain,  they  slept  at  nights 
in  barns  through  which  the  water  dripped  on  to  puddled  straw, 
or  in  holes  beneath  the  carts  with  dampness  oozing  through 
the  clay  walls,  or  in  boggy  beet-root  fields  under  a  hail  of 
shrapnel,  and  their  physical  discomfort  of  coldness  and 
humidity  was  harder  to  bear  than  their  fear  of  death  or 
mutilation.  But  throughout  those  months  of  mud  and  blood 
a  spirit  came  to  visit  them  in  their  trenches,  and  though  it 
could  not  cure  frozen  feet  or  put  a  healing  touch  for  men 
spitting  blood  and  coughing  their  lungs  away,  it  warmed  the 
hearts  of  men  who  otherwise  would  have  been  chilled  to  a 
moral  death.  The  love  of  women  and  of  all  those  people 
who  had  not  been  called  upon  to  fight  went  out  to  those  poilus 
at  the  front,  in  waves  of  emotion  which  reached  as  far  as  the 
advanced  trenches.  By  millions  of  letters,  which  in  spite  of 
an  almost  hopeless  muddle  of  the  postal  service  did  at  last 
reach  the  soldier,  they  knew  that  France,  the  very  heart  of 
France,  was  full  of  pity  and  hero-worship  and  yearning  for 
them.  By  the  gifts  which  came  to  them  —  after  months  of 
delay,  sometimes  —  not  only  from  their  own  kinsfolk  but 
from  unknown  benefactors,  school  children,  convents, 
societies,  and  all  classes  of  men  and  women,  they  knew  that 
their  sufferings  were  understood  and  that  throughout  the 
country  there  was  a  great  prayer  going  up  —  from  freethink- 
ers as  well  as  from  Catholic  souls  —  that  the  soldiers  of 
France  might  me  blessed  with  victory  and  that  they  might 
have  the  strength  to  endure  the  cruelties  of  war.  It  may  be 
thought  that  this  sentiment  would  not  comfort  a  man  lying 
on  his  stomach  as  sentinel  on  outpost  duty,  staring  through 
the  mist  and  rain,  and  listening  for  the  slightest  sound  of  an 
approaching  enemy,  or  a  man  crouching  beneath  a  ledge  of 
earth,  waiting  for  the  quiet  words  of  En  avant!  which  would 
make  him  scramble  up  and  go  into  a  storm  of  shells  with  a 
fair  chance  of  being  cut  to  bits  by  flying  scythes.     But  in 


THE     SOLDIERS     OF     FRANCE      321 

truth  the  sentiment  that  came  welling  up  to  those  men  at  the 
front  was  of  infinite  comfort  and  kept  alight  a  flame  in  them 
which  no  winter  wind  could  douse.  That  sentinel  on  his 
stomach,  gripping  a  cold  rifle  with  numbed  hands,  and  cursing 
silently  the  fate  which  had  brought  him  to  this  agony, 
checked  the  fear  that  was  creeping  up  to  his  heart  —  was  that 
a  line  of  Bodies  stealing  through  the  mist?  —  when  he 
thought  that  the  women  he  knew,  the  folk  in  the  Normandy 
village,  the  old  cure,  and  all  the  spirit  of  France  had  made  a 
hero  of  him  and  expected  him  to  bear  himself  bravely,  and  in 
imagination  stood  beside  him  to  share  his  vigil.  In  order  not 
to  spoil  the  image  they  had  made  of  him,  to  live  up  to  their 
ideals  of  him  he  must  hold  on  and  kill  these  little  devils  of 
fear,  and  die,  if  need  be,  as  a  gallant  soldier  of  France.  It 
would  be  fine  to  come  back  with  a  stripe  on  his  arm,  perhaps 
with  the  military  medal  on  his  breast.  .  .  .  But  oh,  the  pain 
in  those  frozen  feet  of  his !  and  the  coldness  of  this  bed  of 
mud ! 

Poor  devils !  Hundreds  of  them  have  told  me  their  stories 
and  at  the  end  of  a  tale  of  misery  have  said :  "  I  do  not  com- 
plain, you  know.  It's  war,  and  I  am  glad  to  do  my  duty  for 
the  sake  of  France."  And  yet  sometimes,  when  they  thought 
back,  to  the  homes  they  had  left,  and  their  old  ways  of  civil 
life,  they  had  moments  of  weakness  in  which  all  the  strength 
of  their  souls  seemed  to  ebb  away. 

"  It's  fatal  to  think  of  one's  life  before  the  war,"  said  a 
young  Frenchman  who  sat  with  me  at  the  table  of  a  little  cafe 
not  far  from  the  front.  He  was  a  rich  young  man,  with  a 
great  business  in  Paris  which  had  been  suspended  on  the  first 
day  of  mobilization,  and  with  a  pretty  young  wife  who  had 
just  had  her  first  baby.  Now  he  was  a  simple  soldier,  and 
for  nine  months  he  had  not  seen  Paris  or  his  home  or  his 
pretty  wife.  The  baby's  eyes  were  gray-blue,  it  seemed,  but 
he  had  not  been  able  to  test  the  truth  of  that  description. 

"  As  a  rule,"  he  said,  "  one  doesn't  think  back  to  one's  old 
life.     A  great  gulf  lies  between  us  and  the  past  and  it  is  Av 


322  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

though  one  had  been  born  again  just  to  be  a  soldier  in  this 
war.  The  roots  of  our  former  existence  have  been  torn  up. 
All  one's  old  interests  have  been  buried.  My  wife.?  I  hardly 
ever  think  of  her.  My  home.?  Is  there  such  a  place?  .  .  . 
It  is  only  at  night,  or  suddenly,  sometimes,  as  one  goes 
marching  with  one's  company  that  one's  thoughts  begin  to 
roam  back  over  old  grounds  for  a  moment  or  two.  The 
other  fellows  know  what  one's  silence  means,  and  one's  deaf- 
ness, so  that  one  doesn't  hear  a  neighbor's  joke  or  answer  his 
question.  It  gives  one  a  horrible  heartache  and  one  is  over- 
whelmed with  depression.  .  .  .  Great  God,  how  long  is  this 
war  going  to  last?  " 

It  is  only  those  who  have  been  to  the  front  in  France  who 
can  realize  the  life  of  the  men  there  as  it  went  on  month 
after  month  —  the  misery  of  it,  the  dreariness  of  it,  the  lack 
of  any  thrill  except  that  of  fear.  At  the  end  of  April  in  this 
year  1915  I  went  to  the  most  desolate  part  of  the  French 
front,  along  the  battlefields  of  Champagne,  where  after  nine 
months  of  desperate  fighting  the  guns  were  still  at  work  cease- 
lessly and  great  armies  of  France  and  Germany  were  still 
divided  from  each  other  by  a  few  barren  meadows,  a  burned 
wood  or  two,  a  river  bank,  a  few  yards  of  trenches  and  a  zone 
of  Death. 

It  was  in  Champagne-Pouilleuse  —  mangy  Champagne,  it 
is  called,  because  it  has  none  of  the  richness  of  the  vineyard 
country,  but  is  a  great  stretch  of  barren  land  through  which 
the  chalk  breaks  out  in  bald  patches.  The  spirit  of  war 
brooded  over  all  this  countryside,  and  I  passed  through  many 
ruined  villages,  burned  and  broken  by  incendiarism  and  shell- 
fire.  Gradually  as  we  approached  nearer  to  the  front,  the 
signs  of  ordinary  life  were  left  behind,  and  we  came  into  a 
region  where  all  the  activities  of  men  were  devoted  to  one 
extraordinary  purpose,  and  where  they  lived  in  strange  con- 
ditions. 

No  civilian  came  this  way  unless  as  a  correspondent  under 
the  charge  of  a  staff  officer.     The  laborers  on  the  roadside  — 


THE     SOLDIERS     OF     FRANCE      323 

carting  stones  to  this  country  of  chalk  —  were  all  in  uniform. 
No  women  invaded  this  territory  except  where,  here  and 
there,  by  rare  chance,  a  wrinkled  dame  drove  a  plow  across 
a  lonely  field.  No  children  played  about  the  brooks  or 
plucked  the  wild  flowers  on  the  hillsides.  The  inhabitants  of 
this  country  were  all  soldiers,  tanned  by  months  of  hard 
weather,  in  war-worn  clothes,  dusty  after  marching  down  the 
long,  white  roads,  hard  and  tough  in  spite  of  a  winter's 
misery,  with  calm,  resolute  eyes  in  spite  of  the  daily  peril  of 
death  in  which  they  live. 

They  lived  in  a  world  which  is  as  different  from  this  known 
world  of  ours  as  though  they  belonged  to  another  race  of 
men  inhabiting  another  planet,  or  to  an  old  race  far  back 
behind  the  memory  of  the  first  civilization.  For  in  this  dis- 
trict of  Champagne,  the  soldiers  of  France  were  earth-men 
or  troglod3rtes,  not  only  in  the  trenches,  but  for  miles  behind 
the  trenches.  When  the  rains  came  last  autumn  they  were 
without  shelter,  and  there  were  few  villages  on  this  lonely 
stretch  of  country  in  which  to  billet  them.  But  here  were 
soft,  chalky  ridges  and  slopes  in  which  it  was  not  difl'icult  to 
dig  holes  and  caverns.  The  troops  took  to  picks  and  shovels, 
and  very  soon  they  built  habitations  for  themselves  in 
which  they  have  been  living  ever  since  when  not  in  the 
trenches. 

I  was  invited  into  some  of  these  subterranean  parlors,  and 
ducked  my  head  as  I  went  down  clay  steps  into  dim  caves 
where  three  or  four  men  lived  in  close  comradeship  in  each  of 
them.  They  had  tacked  the  photographs  of  their  wives  or 
sweethearts  on  the  walls,  to  make  these  places  "  homelike," 
and  there  was  space  in  some  of  them  for  wood  fires,  which 
burned  with  glowing  embers  and  a  smoke  that  made  my  eyes 
smart,  so  that  by  the  light  of  them  these  soldiers  would  see 
the  portraits  of  those  who  wait  for  them  to  come  back,  who 
have  waited  so  patiently  and  so  long  through  the  dreary 
months. 

But  now  that  spring  had  come  the  earth-men  had  emerged 


32i  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

from  their  holes  to  bask  in  the  sun  again,  and  with  that  love 
of  beauty  which  is  instinctive  in  a  Frenchman's  heart,  they 
were  planting  gardens  and  shrubberies  outside  their  chalk 
dwellings  with  allegorical  designs  in  cockle  shells  or  white 
stones. 

"  Tres  chic !  "  said  the  commandant  to  a  group  of  soldiers 
proud  of  their  handicraft. 

And  chic  also,  though  touching  in  its  sentiment,  was  a 
little  graveyard  behind  a  fringe  of  branches  which  masked  a 
French  battery.  The  gunners  were  still  at  work  plugging 
out  shells  over  the  enemy's  lines,  from  which  came  answering 
shells  with  the  challenge  of  death,  but  they  had  found  time  to 
decorate  the  graves  of  the  comrades  who  had  been  "  unfortu- 
nate." They  had  twined  wild  flowers  about  the  wooden 
crosses  and  made  borders  of  blossom  about  those  mounds  of 
earth.  It  was  the  most  beautiful  cemetery  in  which  I  have 
ever  stood  with  bared  head.  Death  was  busy  not  far  away. 
Great  guns  were  speaking  in  deep,  reverberating  tones,  which 
gave  a  solemn  import  to  the  day;  but  Nature  was  singing 
to  a  different  tune. 

"  It  is  strange,  is  it  not,"  said  our  commandant,  "  this 
contrast  between  war  and  peace.''  Those  cherry  trees  com- 
fort one's  spirit." 

He  was  a  soldier  in  every  fiber  of  his  being,  but  behind 
those  keen,  piercing  eyes  of  his  there  was  the  sentiment  of 
France  stirred  now  by  the  beauty  through  which  we  passed, 
in  spite  of  war.  We  drove  for  a  mile  or  more  down  a  long, 
straight  road  which  was  an  avenue  of  cherry  trees.  They 
made  an  archway  of  white  blossom  above  our  heads,  and  the 
warm  sun  of  the  day  drew  out  their  perfume.  Away  on 
either  side  of  us  the  fields  were  streaked  with  long  rays  of 
brilliant  yellow  where  saffron  grew  as  though  the  sun  had 
split  bars  of  molten  metal  there,  and  below  the  hillside  the 
pear-blossom  and  cherry-blossom  which  bloomed  in  deserted 
orchards  lay  white  and  gleaming  snow  on  the  Swiss  peaks  in 
summer. 


THE     SOLDIERS     OF     FRANCE      325 

"  Even  war  is  less  horrible  now  that  the  sun  shines,"  said 
a  French  officer. 

The  sky  was  cloudlessly  blue,  but  as  I  gazed  up  into  a  patch 
of  it,  where  a  winged  machine  flew  high  with  a  humming  song, 
five  tiny  white  clouds  appeared  quite  suddenly. 

"  They  are  shelling  him,"  said  the  commandant.  "  Pretty 
close,  too." 

Invisible  in  the  winged  machine  was  a  French  aviator, 
reconnoitering  the  German  lines  away  over  Beausejour. 
Afterwards  he  became  visible,  and  I  talked  with  him  when  he 
had  landed  in  the  aviation  field,  where  a  number  of  aeroplanes 
stood  ready  for  flight. 

"  They  touched  her  three  times,"  he  said,  pointing  to  his 
machine.  "  You  can  see  the  holes  where  the  shrapnel  bullets 
pierced  the  metal  sheath." 

He  showed  me  how  he  worked  his  mitrailleuse,  and  then 
strolled  away  to  light  a  cigarette  against  the  wind.  He  had 
done  his  morning  job,  and  had  escaped  death  in  the  air  by 
half  an  inch  or  so.  But  in  the  afternoon  he  would  go  up 
again  —  two  thousand  feet  up  above  the  German  guns  —  and 
thought  no  more  of  it  than  of  just  a  simple  duty  with  a  little 
sport  to  keep  his  spirits  up. 

"  We  are  quite  at  home  here,"  said  one  of  the  French 
oflScers,  leading  the  way  through  a  hoyau,  or  tunnel,  to  a  row 
of  underground  dwellings  which  had  been  burrowed  out  of 
the  earth  below  a  high  ridge  overlooking  the  German  positions 
opposite  Perthes,  INIesnil-lez-Hurlus,  and  Beausejour,  where 
there  had  been  some  of  the  most  ferocious  fighting  in  the 
war,  so  that  the  names  of  those  places  have  been  written 
in  blood  upon  the  history  of  France. 

"  You  see  we  have  made  ourselves  as  comfortable  as 
possible,"  said  the  general,  who  received  us  at  the  doorway 
of  the  little  hole  which,  with  delightful  irony,  he  called  his 
"  palace."  He  is  an  elderly  man,  this  general  who  has  held 
in  a  check  some  of  the  most  violent  assaults  of  the  German 
army,  but  there  was  a  boyish  smile  in  his  eyes  and  none  of 


326  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

the  harshness  of  old  age  in  the  sweetness  of  his  voice.  He 
lived  in  a  hole  in  the  earth  with  just  a  peep-hole  out  of  which 
he  could  see  the  German  lines  on  the  opposite  hills  and  his 
own  trenches  down  below.  As  he  spread  out  his  maps  and 
explained  the  positions  of  his  batteries  and  lines,  I  glanced 
round  his  room  —  at  the  truckle-bed  which  filled  the  length 
of  it,  and  the  deal  table  over  which  he  was  bending,  and  the 
wooden  chair  in  which  he  sat  to  think  out  the  problems  of 
his  task.  There  was  only  one  touch  of  color  in  this  hole 
in  the  hillside,  and  it  belonged  to  a  bunch  of  carnations  placed 
in  a  German  shell  and  giving  out  a  rich  odor  so  that  some  of 
the  beauty  of  spring  had  come  into  this  hiding-place  where 
an  old  man  directed  the  operations  of  death. 

"  Look,"  said  the  general,  pointing  to  the  opposite  lines, 
"  here  is  Crest  196,  about  which  you  gentlemen  have  written 
so  much  in  newspapers."  It  was  just  a  rise  in  the  ground 
above  the  ravine  which  divided  us  from  the  German  ridges, 
but  I  gazed  at  it  with  a  thrill,  remembering  what  waves  of 
blood  have  washed  around  this  hillock,  and  how  many  heroes 
of  France  have  given  their  lives  to  gain  that  crest.  Faintly 
I  could  see  the  lines  of  German  trenches  with  their  earth- 
works thrown  up  along  the  hillsides  and  along  the  barren 
fields  on  each  side  of  the  ravine,  where  French  and  German 
soldiers  are  very  close  to  each  other's  tunnels.  From  where 
we  stood  subterranean  passages  led  to  the  advanced  trenches 
down  there,  and  to  a  famous  "  trapeze  "  on  the  right  of  the 
German  position,  forming  an  angle  behind  the  enemy's  lines, 
so  that  now  and  again  their  soldiers  might  be  seen. 

"  It  is  not  often  in  this  war  that  we  can  see  our  enemy 
unless  we  visit  them  in  their  trenches,  or  they  come  to  us," 
said  the  general,  "  but  a  few  days  ago,  when  I  was  in  the 
trapeze,  I  saw  one  of  them  stooping  down  as  though  gathering 
something  in  his  hands  or  tying  up  his  boot-laces."  Those 
words  were  spoken  by  a  man  who  had  commanded  French 
troops  for  nine  months  of  incessant  fighting  which  reveal  the 
character  of  this  amazing  war.     He  was  delighted  because  he 


THE     SOLDIERS     OF     FRANCE      827 

had  seen  a  German  soldier  in  the  open  and  found  it  a  strange, 
unusual  thing.  Not  a  sign  of  any  human  being  could  I  see 
as  I  gazed  over  the  great  battlefields  of  France.  There  was 
no  glint  of  helmets,  no  flash  of  guns,  no  movements  of  regi- 
ments, no  stirring  of  the  earth.  There  was  a  long  tract  of 
country  in  which  no  living  thing  moved:  utterly  desolate  in 
its  abandonment.  Yet  beneath  the  earth  here,  close  to  us  as 
well  as  far  away,  men  crouched  in  holes  waiting  to  kill  or 
to  be  killed,  and  all  along  the  ridges,  concealed  in  dug-outs 
or  behind  the  low-lying  crests,  great  guns  were  firing  so  that 
their  thunder  rolled  across  the  ravines,  and  their  smoke- 
clouds  rested  for  a  little  while  above  the  batteries. 

The  general  was  pointing  out  a  spot  on  Hill  196  where 
the  Germans  still  held  a  ridge.  I  could  not  see  it  very 
clearly,  or  at  least  the  general  thought  my  eyes  were  wander- 
ing too  much  to  the  right. 

"  I  will  drop  a  shell  there,"  he  said,  and  then  turned  to  a 
telephone  operator  who  was  crouched  in  a  hole  in  the  wall, 
and  gave  an  order  to  him. 

The  man  touched  his  instrument  and  spoke  in  the  mouth- 
piece. 

"C'estlabatterie?" 

There  was  a  little  crackling  in  the  telephone,  like  twigs 
under  a  pot,  and  it  seemed  as  though  a  tiny  voice  were 
speaking  from  a  great  distance. 

"  Now !  "  said  the  general,  pointing  towards  the  crest. 
I  stared  intently,  and  a  second  later,  after  a  solitary  thun- 
derstroke from  a  heavy  gun,  I  saw  a  shell  burst  and  leave  a 
soft  white  cloud  at  the  very  spot  indicated  by  the  old  man  at 
my  side.  I  wondered  if  a  few  Germans  had  been  killed  to 
prove  the  point  for  my  satisfaction.  What  did  it  matter  —  a 
few  more  deaths  to  Indicate  a  mark  on  the  map?  It  was  just 
like  sweeping  a  few  crumbs  off  the  table  in  an  argument  on 
strategy. 

In  another  hole  to  which  the  general  took  me  was  the 
officers'  mess  —  about  as  large  as  a  suburban  bathroom.     At 


328  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

the  end  of  the  dining-table  the  captain  was  shaving  himself, 
and  laughed  with  embarrassment  at  our  entry.  But  he  gave 
me  two  fingers  of  a  soapy  hand  and  said  "  Enchante  "  with 
fine  courtesy. 

Outside,  at  the  top  of  the  tunnel,  was  another  group  of 
oflficers,  who  seemed  to  me  cheery  men  in  spite  of  all  the 
hardships  of  their  winter  in  a  subterranean  world.  The 
spring  had  warmed  their  spirits,  and  they  laughed  under  the 
blue  sky.  But  one  of  them,  who  stood  chatting  with  me, 
had  a  sudden  thrill  in  his  voice  as  he  said,  "  How  is  Paris?  " 
He  spoke  the  word  again  and  said  "  Paris !  "  as  though  it 
held  all  his  soul. 

There  was  the  real  spirit  of  old-world  chivalry  in  a  chateau 
of  France  which  I  visited  two  days  ago.  This  old  building, 
with  its  high  gables  and  pointed  roofs,  holds  the  memory  of 
many  great  chapters  in  French  history.  Attila  the  Hun 
came  this  way  with  his  hordes,  checked  and  broken  at  last,  as 
centuries  later,  not  far  away,  100,000  Germans  were  checked 
and  broken  by  Dumouriez  and  the  French  army  of  1792  on 
the  plain  of  Valmy. 

A  French  officer  pointed  to  a  tablet  on  the  wall  of  the 
chateau  commemorating  that  victory,  and  said :  "  Perhaps 
history  will  be  repeated  here  by  the  general  whom  you  will 
see  later  on."  He  stooped  down  and  rubbed  some  dust  off 
a  stone,  revealing  a  tracing  of  the  footprint  of  Henri  IV, 
who  once  crossed  this  threshold,  and  on  the  way  upstairs 
pointed  to  other  memorial  tablets  of  kings  and  princes, 
statesmen  and  soldiers,  who  had  received  the  hospitality  of 
this  old  house. 

There  are  many  chateaux  of  this  kind  in  Champagne,  and 
in  one  of  them  we  entered  a  long,  bare  room,  where  a  French 
general  stood  with  some  of  his  officers,  and  I  knew  that  the 
old  spirit  of  France  and  its  traditions  of  chivalry  have  not 
died.  This  general,  with  a  silver  star  on  his  breast,  seemed  to 
me  like  one  of  those  nobles  who  fought  in  the  v/ars  of  the 
sixteenth  century  under  the  Due  de  Guise. 


THE     SOLDIERS     OF     FRANCE      329 

He  is  a  man  of  less  than  fifty  years  of  age,  with  a  black 
beard  and  steel-blue  eyes,  extraordinarily  keen  and  piercing, 
and  a  fine  poise  of  the  head,  which  gives  him  an  air  of  dignity 
and  pride,  in  spite  of  the  simplicity  and  charm  of  his  man- 
ners. 

I  sat  opposite  to  him  at  table,  and  in  this  old  room,  with 
stone  walls,  he  seemed  to  me  like  the  central  figure  of  some 
medieval  painting.  Yet  there  was  nothing  medieval  except 
the  touch  of  chivalry  and  the  faith  of  France  in  the  character 
of  this  general  and  his  officers.  Men  of  modern  science  and 
trained  in  a  modem  school  of  thought,  their  conversation 
ranged  over  many  subjects  both  grave  and  gay,  and,  listen- 
ing to  them,  I  saw  the  secret  of  Germany's  failure  to  strike 
France  to  her  knees. 

With  such  men  as  these  in  command,  with  that  steel-eyed 
general  on  the  watch  —  energy  and  intellectual  force  per- 
sonified in  his  keen,  vivacious  face  —  the  old  faults  of  1870 
could  not  happen  so  easily  again,  and  Germany  counted 
without  this  renaissance  of  France.  These  men  do  not  min- 
imize the  strength  of  the  German  defensive,  but  there  is  no 
fear  in  their  hearts  about  the  final  issue  of  the  war,  and  they 
are  sure  of  their  own  position  along  this  front  in  Champagne. 

It  was  to  the  first  lines  of  defense  along  that  front  that  I 
went  in  the  afternoon  with  other  officers.  Our  way  was 
through  a  wood  famous  in  this  war  because  it  has  been  the 
scene  of  heavy  fighting,  ending  in  its  brilliant  capture  by  the 
French.  It  has  another  interest,  because  it  is  one  of  the  few 
places  along  the  front  —  as  far  as  I  know  the  only  place  — 
where  troops  have  not  entrenched  themselves. 

This  was  an  impossibility,  because  the  ground  is  so  moist 
that  water  is  reached  a  few  feet  down.  It  was  necessary  to 
build  shell-proof  shelters  above-ground,  and  this  was  done  by 
turning  the  troops  into  an  army  of  wood-cutters. 

This  sylvan  life  of  the  French  troops  here  is  not  without 
its  charm,  apart  from  the  "  Marmites  "  which  come  crashing 
through  the  trees,  and  shrapnel  bullets  which  whip  through 


330  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

the  branches.  The  ground  has  dried  up  during  recent  days, 
so  that  the  long  boarded  paths  leading  to  the  first  lines  are 
no  longer  the  only  way  of  escape  from  bogs  and  swamps. 

It  might  have  been  the  scene  of  "  A  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream  "  as  I  made  my  way  through  thickets  all  aglint  with 
the  first  green  of  the  spring's  foliage,  treading  on  a  carpet 
of  white  and  yellow  flowers  and  accompanied  on  my  way  by 
butterflies  and  flying  beetles. 

But  a  tremendous  noise  beyond  the  stage  would  have  spoilt 
the  play.  French  batteries  were  hard  at  work  and  their 
shells  came  rushing  like  fierce  birds  above  the  trees.  The 
sharp  "  tang "  of  the  French  "  soixante-quinze  "  cracked 
out  between  the  duller  thuds  of  the  "  cent-vingt "  and  other 
heavy  guns,  and  there  were  only  brief  moments  of  silence 
between  those  violent  explosions  and  the  long-drawn  sighs  of 
wind  as  the  shells  passed  overhead  and  then  burst  with  that 
final  crash  which  scatters  death. 

In  one  of  the  silences,  when  the  wood  was  very  still  and 
murmurous  with  humming  insects,  I  heard  a  voice  call.  It 
was  not  a  challenge  of  "  Qui  va  la  "  or  "  Garde  a  vous,"  but 
the  voice  of  spring.  It  called  "  Cuckoo !  Cuckoo ! "  and 
mocked  at  war. 

A  young  officer  with  me  was  more  interested  in  the  voices 
of  the  guns.  He  knew  them  all,  even  when  they  spoke  from 
the  enemy's  batteries,  and  as  we  walked  he  said  alternately, 
"  Depart  .  .  .  Arrive  .  .  .  Depart  .  .  .  Arrive  .  .  ."  as  one  of 
the  French  shells  left  and  one  of  the  German  shells  arrived. 

The  enemy's  shells  came  shattering  across  the  French  lines 
very  frequently,  and  sometimes  as  I  made  my  way  through 
the  trees  towards  the  outer  bastions  I  heard  the  splintering 
of  wood  not  far  away. 

But  the  soldiers  near  me  seemed  quite  unconscious  of  any 
peril  overhead.  Some  of  them  were  gardening  and  making 
little  bowers  about  their  huts.  Only  a  few  sentinels  were  at 
their  posts,  along  the  bastions  built  of  logs  and  clay,  behind 


THE     SOLDIERS     OF     FRANCE      331 

a  fringe  of  brushwood  which  screened  them  from  the  first  line 
of  German  trenches  outside  this  boundary  of  the  wood. 

"  Don't  show  your  head  round  that  corner,"  said  an 
officer,  touching  me  on  the  sleeve,  as  I  caught  a  glimpse  of 
bare  fields  and,  a  thousand  yards  away,  a  red-roofed  house. 
There  was  nothing  much  to  see — -although  the  enemies  of 
France  were  there  with  watchful  eyes  for  any  movement  be- 
hind our  screen. 

"  A  second  is  long  enough  for  a  shot  in  the  forehead,"  said 
the  officer,  "  and  if  I  were  you  I  would  take  that  other  path. 
The  screen  has  worn  a  bit  thin  just  there." 

It  was  curious.  I  found  it  absolutely  impossible  to  realize, 
without  an  intellectual  effort,  that  out  of  the  silence  of  those 
flat  fields  death  would  come  instantly  if  I  showed  my  head. 
But  I  did  not  try  the  experiment  to  settle  all  doubts. 

In  the  heart  of  the  wood  was  a  small  house,  spared  by  some 
freak  of  chance  by  the  German  shells  which  came  dropping 
on  every  side  of  it.  Here  I  took  tea  with  the  officers,  who 
used  it  as  their  headquarters,  and  never  did  tea  taste  better 
than  on  that  warm  spring  day,  though  it  was  served  with  a 
ladle  out  of  a  tin  bowl  to  the  music  of  many  guns.  The 
officers  were  a  cheery  set  who  had  become  quite  accustomed  to 
the  menace  of  death  which  at  any  moment  might  shatter  this 
place  and  make  a  wreckage  of  its  peasant  furniture.  The 
colonel  sat  back  in  a  wooden  armchair,  asking  for  news  about 
the  outer  world  as  though  he  were  a  shipwrecked  mariner  on  a 
desert  isle;  but  every  now  and  then  he  would  listen  to  the 
sound  of  the  shells  and  say,  "Depart!  .  .  .  arrive!"  just 
like  the  officer  who  had  walked  with  me  through  the  wood. 
Two  of  the  younger  officers  sat  on  the  edge  of  a  truckle-bed 
beneath  the  portrait  of  a  buxom  peasant  woman,  who  was 
obviously  the  wife  of  the  late  proprietor.  Two  other  officers 
lounged  against  the  door-posts,  entertaining  the  guests  of  the 
day  with  droll  stories  of  death.  Another  came  in  with  the 
latest  communique  received  by  the  wireless  station  outside, 


332  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

and  there  was  a  "  Bravo !  bravo ! "  from  all  of  us  because  it 
had  been  a  good  day  for  France.  They  were  simple  fellows, 
these  men,  and  they  had  the  manners  of  fine  gentlemen  in  spite 
of  their  mud-stained  uniforms  and  the  poverty  of  the  cottage 
in  which  they  lived.  Hardly  a  day  passed  without  one  of 
their  comrades  being  killed  or  wounded,  but  some  officer  came 
to  take  his  place  and  his  risk,  and  they  made  him  welcome  to 
the  wooden  chair  and  his  turn  of  the  truckle-bed.  I  think 
in  that  peasant's  hut  I  saw  the  whole  spirit  of  the  French 
army  in  its  surrender  of  self-interest  and  its  good-humored 
gallantry. 

The  guns  were  still  thundering  as  I  drove  back  from  the 
wood.  The  driver  of  the  car  turned  to  me  for  a  moment  with 
a  smile  and  pointed  a  few  yards  away. 

"  Did  you  see  that  shell  burst  then?  It  was  pretty 
close." 

Death  was  always  pretty  close  when  one  reached  the  fight- 
ing-lines of  France. 

Soldiers  of  France,  for  nearly  a  year  of  war  I  have  been 
walking  among  you  with  watchful  eyes,  seeing  you  in  all  your 
moods,  of  gaiety  and  depression,  of  youthful  spirits  and 
middle-aged  fatigues,  and  listening  to  your  tales  of  war  along 
the  roads  of  France,  where  you  have  gone  marching  to  the 
zone  of  death  valiantly.  I  know  some  of  your  weaknesses 
and  the  strength  of  the  spirit  that  is  in  you,  and  the  senti- 
ment that  lies  deep  and  pure  in  your  hearts  in  spite  of  the 
common  clay  of  your  peasant  life  or  the  cynical  wit  you 
learned  in  Paris.  Sons  of  a  great  race,  you  have  not  forgot- 
ten the  traditions  of  a  thousand  years,  which  makes  your 
history  glorious  with  the  spirit  of  a  keen  and  flashing  people, 
which  century  after  century  has  renewed  its  youth  out  of  the 
weariness  of  old  vices  and  reached  forward  to  new  beauties  of 
science  and  art  with  quick  intelligence. 

This  monstrous  war  has  been  your  greatest  test,  straining 
your  moral  fiber  beyond  even  the  ordeal  of  those  days  when 
your  Republican  armies  fought  in  rags  and  tatters  on  the 


THE     SOLDIERS     OF     FRANCE      333 

frontiers  and  swept  across  Europe  to  victories  which  drained 
your  manhood.  The  debacle  of  1870  was  not  your  fault,  for 
not  all  your  courage  could  save  you  from  corruption  and 
treachery,  and  in  this  new  war  you  have  risen  above  your 
frailties  with  a  strength  and  faith  that  have  wiped  out  all 
those  memories  of  failure.  It  is  good  to  have  made  friends 
among  you,  to  have  clasped  some  of  your  brown  hands,  to 
have  walked  a  little  along  the  roads  with  you.  Always  now 
the  name  of  France  will  be  like  a  song  in  my  heart,  stirring 
a  thousand  memories  of  valor  and  fine  endurance,  and  of 
patience  in  this  senseless  business  of  slaughter,  which  made 
you  unwilling  butchers  and  victims  of  a  bloody  sacrifice. 
Bonne  chance,  soldats  de  Frame! 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  MEN  IN  KHAKI 

WHEN  our  little  professional  army  landed  on  the 
coast  of  France  there  was  not  one  in  a  thousand 
soldiers  who  had  more  than  the  vaguest  ideas  as  to 
why  he  was  coming  to  fight  the  Germans  or  as  to  the  char- 
acter of  the  fighting  in  which  he  was  to  be  engaged.  If  one 
asked  him  "  Why  are  we  at  war  with  Germany?  "  this  regular 
soldier  would  scratch  his  head,  struggle  to  find  a  reasonable 
answer,  and  mutter  something  about  "  them  bloody  Ger- 
mans," and  "  giving  a  hand  to  the  Froggies."  Of  interna- 
tional politics,  world-problems,  Teutonic  ambitions,  Slav 
perils.  White  Papers  or  Yellow  Papers,  he  knew  nothing  and 
cared  nothing.  As  a  professional  soldier  it  was  his  duty  to 
fight  anybody  he  was  told  to  fight,  of  whatever  color  he 
might  be,  or  of  whatever  country.  For  some  months  it  had 
been  in  his  mind  that  he  might  have  to  do  a  bit  of  shooting  in 
Ireland,  and  on  the  whole  he  was  glad  that  this  enemy  was  to 
speak  a  foreign  language.  It  made  the  game  seem  more  as 
it  should  be.  What  was  it  Blatchford  had  said  about  the 
Germans  ?  He  couldn't  quite  remember  the  drift  of  it,  except 
that  they  had  been  preparing  for  years  to  have  a  smack  at 
England.  Wanted  to  capture  all  our  colonies,  and  were 
building  ships  like  blazes.  Of  course  our  Government  had 
been  asleep  as  usual,  and  didn't  care  a  damn.  No  British 
Government  ever  did,  as  far  as  he  could  remember.  Any- 
how, the  Germans  were  his  enemy,  and  the  French  were  his 
friends  —  which  was  queer  —  and  the  British  army  was  going 
to  save  Europe  again  according  to  its  glorious  traditions  as 

mentioned  more  than  once  by  the  Colonel.     It  had  been  a  fine 

334 


THE     MEN     IN     KHAKI  335 

time  before  saying  good-by  to  the  wife  and  kids.  Every 
man  had  been  a  hero  to  his  fellow  citizens  who  had  clapped 
him  on  the  back  and  stood  free  drinks  in  great  style. 
"  Bring  us  back  some  Gennan  helmets,  Jock !  "  the  girls  had 
shouted  out.  "  And  mind  your  P's  and  Q's  with  them  French 
hussies." 

It  would  be  a  bit  of  a  change  to  see  the  Continental  way  of 
doing  things.  They  spoke  a  queer  lingo,  the  French,  but 
were  all  right.  Quite  all  right,  judging  from  the  newspapers, 
and  a  fellow  who  had  gone  out  as  a  chauffeur  and  had  come 
back  with  fancy  manners.  "  After  you,  Monsieur.  Pardon- 
neymore."  There  would  be  some  great  adventures  to  tell  the 
lads  when  the  business  was  over.  Of  course  there  would  be 
hot  work,  and  some  of  the  boys  would  never  come  back  at  all 
—  accidents  did  happen  even  in  the  best  regulated  wars  — 
but  with  a  bit  of  luck  there  would  be  a  great  home-coming 
with  all  the  bells  ringing,  and  crowds  in  the  streets,  and  the 
band  playing  "  See  the  conquering  hero  comes,"  or  "  When 
Tommy  comes  marching  home."  We  had  learned  a  thing  or 
two  since  South  Africa,  and  the  army  was  up  to  scratch. 
These  Germans  would  have  to  look  out  for  themselves. 

I  think  that  represents  fairly  enough  the  mental  attitude 
of  the  average  British  soldier  who  came  out  to  France  into 
an  unknown  land  in  which  he  was  to  do  "  his  bit."  The 
younger  men  knew  nothing  of  the  psychological  effect  of 
shell-fire,  and  their  imagination  was  not  haunted  by  any  fear. 
The  older  men,  brought  back  to  the  colors  after  a  spell  of 
civil  life,  judged  of  war  according  to  the  standards  of  the 
South  African  campaign  or  Omdurman,  and  did  not  guess 
that  this  war  was  to  be  a  more  monstrous  thing,  which  would 
make  that  little  affair  in  the  Transvaal  seem  a  picnic  for  boys 
playing  at  the  game.  Not  yet  had  they  heard  the  roar  of 
Germany's  massed  artillery  or  seen  the  heavens  open  and 
rain  down  death. 

The  British  officer  was  more  thoughtful,  and  did  not  reveal 
his  thoughts  to  the  men.     Only  in  quiet  conversation  in  his 


836  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

own  mess  did  he  reveal  the  forebodings  which  made  his  soul 
gloomy. 

"  There  is  no  doubt  the  German  army  is  the  greatest  fight- 
ing machine  in  Europe.  We  might  dislike  some  of  their 
methods,  their  cast-iron  system  and  all  that  —  oh,  I  know 
what  the  Times  man  said  about  their  last  maneuvers  —  but 
they  have  been  preparing  for  this  war  for  years,  and  their 
organization  is  all  cut  and  dried.  How  about  the  French? 
Yes,  they  have  plenty  of  pluck,  and  I've  seen  something  of 
their  gunners  —  quite  marvelous  !  —  but  have  they  got  any 
staying  power?  Are  they  ready?  How  about  their  poli- 
ticians? I  don't  like  the  look  of  things,  altogether.  We 
have  joined  in  this  infernal  war  —  had  to  of  course  —  but  if 
things  go  wrong  in  France  we  haven't  anything  like  an  army 
to  tackle  a  job  like  this.  .  .  .  Not  that  I'm  a  pessimist,  mind 
you." 

No,  they  were  not  pessimists,  these  British  officers,  when 
they  first  came  out  to  France;  and  the  younger  men,  all 
those  lieutenants  who  had  come  quite  recently  from  Sandhurst 
and  Stonyhurst,  and  public  schools  in  England,  with  the  fine 
imperturable  manner  of  their  class  and  caste,  hiding  their 
boyishness  under  a  mask  of  gravity,  and  not  giving  themselves 
away  by  the  slightest  exuberance  of  speech  or  gesture,  but 
maintaining  stiff  upper  lips  under  a  square  quarter  of  an  inch 
of  fair  bristles,  went  into  this  war  with  unemotional  and 
unconscious  heroism.  Unlike  the  French  officer,  who  had 
just  that  touch  of  emotionalism  and  self-consciousness  which 
delights  in  the  hero-worship  in  the  streets,  the  cheers  of 
great  crowds,  the  fluttering  of  women's  handkerchiefs,  and 
the  showering  of  flowers  from  high  balconies,  these  English 
boys  had  packed  up  their  traps  and  gone  away  from  homes 
just  as  they  had  got  back  to  school  after  the  holidays,  a  little 
glum,  and  serious,  at  the  thought  of  work. 
"Good-by,  Mother." 

The  embrace  had  lasted  a  few  seconds  longer  than  usual. 
This  mother  had  held  her  son  tight,  and  had  turned  a  little 


THE     MEN     IN     KHAKI  337 

pale.  But  her  voice  had  been  steady  and  she  had  spoken 
familiar  words  of  affection  and  advice,  just  as  if  her  boy  were 
off  to  the  hunting-fields,  or  polo  match. 

"Good-by,  darling.     Do  be  careful,  won't  you.?     Don't 
take  unnecessary   risks." 

"  Right-ho !  .  .  .  Back  soon,  I  hope." 
That  was  all,  in  most  cases.  No  sobs  or  heartbreaks. 
No  fine  words  about  patriotism,  and  the  sweetness  of  death 
for  the  Mother  Country,  and  the  duty  of  upholding  the  old 
traditions  of  the  flag.  All  that  was  taken  for  granted,  as  it 
had  been  taken  for  granted  when  this  tall  fellow  in  brand  new 
khaki  with  nice-smelling  belts  of  brown  leather,  was  a  bald- 
headed  baby  on  a  lace  pillow  in  a  cradle,  or  an  obstreperous 
boy  in  a  big  nursery.  The  word  patriotism  is  never  spoken 
in  an  English  household  of  this  boy's  class.  There  are  no 
solemn  discourses  about  duty  to  the  Mother  Country.  Those 
things  have  always  been  taken  for  granted,  like  the  bread  and 
butter  at  the  breakfast  table,  and  the  common  decencies  of 
life,  and  the  good  manners  of  well-bred  people.  When  his 
mother  had  brought  a  man-child  into  the  w^orld  she  knew 
that  this  first-born  would  be  a  soldier,  at  some  time  of  his  life. 
In  thousands  of  families  it  is  still  the  tradition.  She  knew 
also  that  if  it  were  necessary,  according  to  the  code  of  Eng- 
land, to  send  a  punitive  expedition  against  some  native  race, 
or  to  capture  a  new  piece  of  the  earth  for  the  British  Empire, 
this  child  of  hers  would  play  his  part,  and  take  the  risks, 
just  as  his  father  had  done,  and  his  grandfather.  The  boy 
knew  also,  though  he  was  never  told.  The  usual  thing  had 
happened  at  the  usual  age. 

"  I  suppose  you  will  soon  be  ready  for  Sandhurst,  Dick?  " 
**  Yes,  I  suppose  so.  Father." 

So  when  the  war  cam.e  these  young  men  who  had  been 
gazetted  six  months  or  so  before  went  out  to  France  as  most 
men  go  to  do  their  job,  without  enthusiasm,  but  without 
faltering,  in  the  same  matter-of-fact  way  as  a  bank  clerk 
catches  the  9.15  train  to  the  city.     But  death  might  be  at 


338  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

the  end  of  the  journey?  Yes.  Quite  likely.  They  would 
die  in  the  same  quiet  way.  It  was  a  natural  incident  of  the 
job.  A  horrid  nuisance,  of  course,  quite  rotten,  and  all  that, 
but  no  more  to  be  shirked  than  the  risk  of  taking  a  toss  over 
an  ugly  fence.  It  was  what  this  young  man  had  been  bom 
for.     It  was  the  price  he  paid  for  his  caste. 

There  were  some  undercurrents  of  emotion  in  the  British 
army  not  to  be  seen  on  the  surface.  There  had  been  private 
dramas  in  private  drawing-rooms.  Some  of  the  older  men 
had  been  "  churned  up,"  as  they  would  say,  because  this 
sudden  war  had  meant  a  leave-taking  from  women,  who 
would  be  in  a  deuce  of  a  fix  if  anything  happened  to  certain 
captains  and  certain  majors.  Love  affairs  which  had  been 
somewhat  complicated  were  simplified  too  abruptly  by  a 
rapid  farewell,  and  a  "  God  bless  you,  old  girl.  ...  I  hate 
to  leave  you  with  such  ragged  ends  to  the  whole  business. 
But  perhaps  after  all  it's  a  way  out  —  for  both  of  us.  Eh?  " 
The  war  offered  a  way  out  for  all  sorts  of  men  with  compli- 
cated lives,  with  debts  that  had  been  rather  a  worry,  and  with 
bills  of  folly  that  could  not  be  paid  at  sight,  and  with  skele- 
tons in  the  cupboard  rattling  their  bones  too  loudly  behind 
the  panels.  Well,  it  was  a  case  of  cut  and  run.  Between  the 
new  life  and  the  old  there  would  be  no  bridge  across  which 
a  woman  or  a  ghost  could  walk.  War  is  always  a  way  of 
escape  even  though  it  be  through  the  dark  valley  of  death. 

Nothing  of  this  private  melodrama  was  visible  among 
those  men  who  came  to  France.  When  they  landed  at 
Boulogne  there  was  no  visible  expression  on  faces  which 
have  been  trained  to  be  expressionless.  At  Rouen,  at  Le 
Mans,  at  St.  Omer,  and  many  other  towns  in  France  I 
watched  our  British  officers  and  tried  to  read  their  character 
after  getting  a  different  point  of  view  among  the  French 
troops.  Certainly  in  their  way  they  were  magnificent  — 
the  first  gentlemen  in  the  world,  the  most  perfect  type  of 
aristocratic  manhood.  Their  quietude  and  their  coldness 
struck    me   as    remarkable,   because   of   the   great    contrast 


THE     MEN     IN     KHAKI  339 

in  the  character  of  the  people  around  them.  For  the  first 
time  I  saw  the  qualities  of  my  own  race,  with  something  like 
a  foreigner's  eyes,  and  realized  the  strength  of  our  racial 
character.  It  was  good  to  see  the  physique  of  these  men, 
with  their  clear-cut  English  faces,  and  their  fine  easy  swagger, 
utterly  unconscious  and  unaffected,  due  to  having  played  all 
manners  of  games  since  early  boyhood,  so  that  their 
athletic  build  was  not  spoilt  by  deliberate  development. 
And  I  gave  homage  to  them  because  of  the  perfect  cut 
and  equipment  of  their  uniforms,  so  neat  and  simple, 
and  workmanlike  for  the  job  of  war.  Only  Englishmen 
could  look  so  well  in  these  clothes.  And  even  in  these 
French  towns  I  saw  the  influence  of  English  school  life  and 
of  all  our  social  traditions  standing  clear-cut  against  the 
temperament  of  another  nation  with  different  habits  and 
ideals.  They  were  confident  without  any  demonstrative 
sign  that  they  were  superior  beings  destined  by  God,  or 
the  force  of  Fate,  to  hold  the  fullest  meaning  of  civilization. 
They  were  splendidly  secure  in  this  faith,  not  making  a  brag 
of  it,  not  alluding  to  it,  but  taking  it  for  granted,  just  as 
they  had  taken  for  granted  their  duty  to  come  out  to  France 
and  die  if  that  were  destined.  And  studying  them,  at  cafe 
tables,  at  the  base,  or  in  the  depots,  I  acknowledged  that, 
broadly,  they  were  right.  In  spite  of  an  extraordinary 
ignorance  of  art  and  letters  (speaking  of  the  great  majority), 
in  spite  of  ideas  stereotyped  by  the  machinery  of  their 
schools  and  universities,  so  that  one  might  know  precisely 
their  attitude  to  such  questions  as  social  reform,  inter- 
nationalism. Home  Rule  for  Ireland,  or  the  suffragettes  — 
any  big  problem  demanding  freedom  of  thought  and  un- 
conventionality  of  discussion  —  it  was  impossible  to  resist 
the  conviction  that  these  officers  of  the  British  army  have 
qualities,  supreme  of  their  kind,  which  give  a  mastery  to 
men.  Iheir  courage  was  not  a  passion,  demanding  rage 
or  religious  fervor,  or  patriotic  enthusiasm,  for  its  inspira- 
tion.    It  was  the  very  law  of  their  life,  the  essential  spirit 


340  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

in  them.  They  were  unconscious  of  it  as  a  man  is  un- 
conscious of  breathing,  unless  diseased.  Their  honor  was 
not  a  thing  to  talk  about.  To  prate  about  the  honor  of 
the  army  or  the  honor  of  England  was  like  talking  about 
the  honor  of  their  mother.  It  is  not  done.  And  yet,  as 
Mark  Antony  said,  "  They  were  all  honorable  men,"  and 
there  seemed  an  austerity  of  virtue  in  them  which  no 
temptation  would  betray  —  the  virtue  of  men  who  have  a 
code  admitting  of  certain  easy  vices,  but  not  of  treachery 
or  cowardice,  or  corruption.  They  had  such  good  form, 
these  young  men  who  had  come  out  to  a  dirty,  devilish  war. 
It  was  enormously  good  to  hear  them  talking  to  each  other 
in  just  the  same  civil,  disinterested,  casual  way  which 
belongs  to  the  conversational  range  of  St.  James's  Street 
clubs.  Not  once  —  like  French  soldiers  —  did  they  plunge 
into  heated  discussions  on  the  ethics  of  war,  or  the  philosophy 
of  life,  or  the  progress  of  civilization,  or  the  rights  of  democ- 
racies. Never  did  they  reveal  to  casual  strangers  like 
myself  —  and  hundreds  of  French  soldiers  did  —  the  secret 
affections  of  their  heart,  flowing  back  to  the  women  they 
had  left,  or  their  fears  of  death  and  disablement,  or  their 
sense  of  the  mystery  of  God.  Not  even  war,  with  its 
unloosing  of  old  restraints,  its  smashing  of  conventionalities, 
could  break  down  the  code  of  these  young  English  gentlemen 
whose  first  and  last  lesson  had  been  those  of  self-concealment 
and  self-control.  In  England  these  characteristics  are 
accepted,  and  one  hardly  thinks  of  them.  It  is  the  foreigner's 
point  of  view  of  us.  But  in  France,  in  war  time,  in  a  country 
all  vibrant  with  emotionalism,  this  restraint  of  manner  and 
speech  and  utter  disregard  of  all  "  problems  "  and  mysteries 
of  life,  and  quiet,  cheerful  acceptation  of  the  job  in  hand, 
startled  the  imagination  of  Englishmen  who  had  been  long 
enough  away  from  home  to  stand  aloof  and  to  study  those 
officers  with  a  fresh  vision.  There  was  something  superb  in 
those  simple,  self-confident,  normal  men,  who  made  no  fuss, 
but  obeyed  orders,  or  gave  them,  with  a  spirit  of  discipline 


THE     MEN     IN     KHAKI  341 

which  belonged  to  their  own  souls  and  was  not  imposed 
by  a  self-conscious  philosophy.  And  yet  I  could  under- 
stand why  certain  Frenchmen,  in  spite  of  their  admiration, 
were  sometimes  irritated  by  these  British  officers.  There 
were  times  when  the  similarity  between  them,  the  uniformity 
of  that  ridiculous  little  mustache  on  the  upper  lip,  the 
intonation  of  voices  with  the  peculiar  timbre  of  the  public 
school  drawl,  seemed  to  them  rather  tiresome.  They  had 
the  manners  of  caste,  the  touch  of  arrogance  which  belongs 
to  a  caste,  in  power.  Every  idea  they  had  was  a  caste 
idea,  contemptuous  in  a  civil  way  of  poor  devils  who 
had  other  ideas,  and  who  were  therefore  guilty  —  not  by 
their  own  fault,  of  course  —  of  shocking  bad  form.  To  be 
a  Socialist  in  such  company  would  be  worse  than  being  drunk. 
To  express  a  belief  in  democratic  liberty  would  cause  a  silence 
to  fall  upon  a  group  of  them  as  though  some  obscenity  be- 
yond the  limits  allowed  in  an  officers'  mess-room  had  been 
uttered  by  a  man  without  manners. 

Their  attitude  toward  French  officers  was,  in  the  beginning 
of  the  war,  calculated  to  put  a  little  strain  upon  the  entente 
cordiale.  It  was  an  attitude  of  polite  but  haughty  con- 
descension. A  number  of  young  Frenchmen  of  the  best 
families  had  been  appointed  as  interpreters  to  the  British 
Expedition.  There  were  aristocrats  among  them  whose 
names  run  like  golden  threads  through  the  pages  of  French 
history.  It  was  therefore  disconcerting  when  the  3'oung 
Viscomte  de  Chose  and  a  certain  Marquis  de  Machin,  found 
that  their  knowledge  of  English  was  used  for  the  purpose  of 
buying  a  packet  of  cigarettes  for  a  lieutenant  who  knew  no 
French,  and  of  running  errands  for  British  officers  who 
accepted  such  services  as  a  matter  of  course.  The  rank  and 
file  of  the  British  army  which  first  came  into  France  was 
also  a  little  careless  of  French  susceptibilities.  After  the 
first  rapture  of  that  welcome  which  was  extended  to  anyone 
in  khaki,  French  citizens  began  to  look  a  little  askance  at 
the  regiments  from  the  Highlands  and  Lowlands,  some  of 


342  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

whose  men  demanded  free  gifts  in  the  shops,  and,  when  a 
little  drunk,  were  rather  crude  in  their  amorous  advances 
to  girls  of  decent  up-bringing.  These  things  were  inevitable. 
In  our  regular  army  there  were  the  sweepings  of  many  slums, 
as  well  as  of  the  best  blood  of  our  peasantry  and  our  good  old 
families.  Tough  and  hardened  fellows  called  to  the  colors 
again  from  Glasgow  and  Liverpool,  Cardiff  and  Limehouse, 
had  none  of  the  refinements  of  the  younger  generation  of 
soldiers  who  prefer  lemonade  to  whisky,  and  sweetmeats 
to  shag.  It  was  these  who  in  the  first  Expeditionary  Force 
gave  most  trouble  to  the  military  police  and  found  them- 
selves under  the  iron  heel  of  a  discipline  which  is  very  hard 
and  very  necessary  in  time  of  war. 

These  men  were  heroic  soldiers,  yet  our  hero-worship 
need  not  blind  us  to  the  truth  of  things.  There  is  nothing 
more  utterly  false  than  to  imagine  that  war  purges  human 
nature  of  all  its  frailties  and  vices,  and  that  under  the  shadow 
of  death  a  great  body  of  men  gathered  like  this  from  many 
classes  and  cities,  become  suddenly  white  knights,  sans  peur 
et  sans  reproche,  inspired  by  the  highest  ideals  of  faith  and 
chivalry.  If  only  some  new  Shakespeare  would  come  out 
of  the  ranks  after  this  war  to  give  us  immortal  portraits  of 
a  twentieth-century  Falstaff,  with  a  modern  Nym,  Pistol, 
and  Bardolph  —  what  a  human  comedy  would  be  there  in 
the  midst  of  all  this  tragedy  in  France  and  Flanders,  setting 
off  the  fine,  exalted  heroism  of  all  those  noble  and  excellent 
men  who,  like  the  knights  and  men-at-arms  of  Henry  at 
Agincourt,  thought  that  "  the  fewer  men  the  greater  share 
of  honor,"  and  fought  for  England  with  a  devotion  that 
was  careless  of  death.  After  the  British  retreat  from  Mons, 
when  our  regular  troops  realized  very  rapidly  the  real  mean- 
ing of  modern  warfare,  knowing  now  that  it  was  to  be  no 
"  picnic,"  but  a  deadly  struggle  against  great  odds,  and  a 
fight  of  men  powerless  against  infernal  engines,  there  came 
out  of  France  by  every  ship  the  oddest  types  of  men  who 
had  been  called  out  to  fill  up  the  gaps  and  take  a  share  in  the 


THE     MEN     IN     KHAKI  343 

deadly  business.  These  "  dug-outs  "  were  strange  fellows, 
some  of  them.  Territorial  officers  who  had  held  commissions 
in  the  Yeomanry,  old  soldiers  who  had  served  in  India, 
Egypt,  and  South  Africa,  before  playing  interminable  games 
of  chess  in  St.  James's  Street,  or  taking  tea  in  country 
rectories  and  croquet  mallets  on  country  lawns;  provincial 
schoolmasters  who  had  commanded  an  O.T.C.  with  high- 
toned  voices  which  could  recite  a  passage  from  Ovid  with 
cultured  diction;  purple-faced  old  fellows  who  for  years 
had  tempted  Providence  and  apoplexy  by  violence  to  their 
valets ;  and  young  bloods  who  had  once  "  gone  through  the 
Guards,"  before  spending  their  week-ends  at  Brighton  with 
little  ladies  from  the  Gaiety  chorus,  came  to  Boulogne  or 
Havre  by  every  boatload  and  astonished  the  natives  of  those 
ports  by  their  martial  manners.  The  Red  Cross  was  responsi- 
ble for  many  astounding  representatives  of  the  British  race 
in  France,  and  there  were  other  crosses  —  purple,  green,  blue, 
and  black  —  who  contributed  to  this  melodrama  of  mixed 
classes  and  types.  Benevolent  old  gentlemen,  garbed  like 
second-hand  Field-Marshals,  tottered  down  the  quaysides 
and  took  the  salutes  of  startled  French  soldiers  with  bland 
but  dignified  benevolence.  The  Jewish  people  were  not 
only  generous  to  the  Red  Cross  work  with  unstinted  wealth 
which  they  poured  into  its  coffers,  but  with  rich  young  men 
who  offered  their  lives  and  their  motor-cars  in  this  good 
service  —  though  the  greater  part  of  them  never  went  nearer 
to  the  front  (through  no  fault  of  their  own)  than  Rouen  or 
Paris,  where  they  spent  enormous  sums  of  money  at  the 
best  hotels,  and  took  lady  friends  for  joy  rides  in  ambulances 
of  magnificent  design.  Boulogne  became  overcrowded  with 
men  and  women  wearing  military  uniforms  of  no  knowTi 
design  with  badges  of  mysterious  import.  Even  the  Scot- 
land Yard  detectives  were  bewildered  by  some  of  these  people 
whose  passports  were  thoroughly  sound,  but  whose  costumes 
aroused  deep  suspicion.  What  could  they  do,  for  instance, 
with  a  young  Hindu,  dressed  as  a  boy-scout,  wearing  tortoise- 


S4t4i  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

shell  spectacles,  with  a  field  kit  of  dangling  bags,  water- 
bottles,  maps,  cooking  utensils,  and  other  material  suitable 
for  life  on  a  desert  isle?  Or  what  could  they  say  to  a  lady 
in  breeches  and  top-boots,  with  a  revolver  stuck  through 
her  belt,  and  a  sou'wester  on  her  head,  who  was  going  to 
nurse  the  wounded  in  a  voluntary  hospital  at  Nice?  Contin- 
gents of  remarkable  women  invaded  the  chief  tea-shops  in 
Boulogne  and  caused  a  panic  among  the  waitresses.  They 
wore  Buffalo  Bill  hats  and  blue  uniforms  with  heavy  blue 
coats,  which  were  literally  spangled  with  brass  buttons. 
Upon  their  stalwart  bosoms  were  four  rows  of  buttons,  and 
there  was  a  row  of  brass  on  each  side  of  th.eir  top-coats,  on 
their  shoulders,  and  at  the  back  of  their  wais.t-belts.  In  the 
light  of  the  tea-shop,  where  they  consumed  innumerable 
buns,  one's  eyes  became  dizzy  with  all  these  bits  of  shining 
metal.  To  a  wounded  man  the  sight  of  one  of  these  ladies 
must  have  been  frightening,  as  though  a  shell  had  burst  near 
his  bedside,  with  the  glint  of  broken  steel.  Young  officers 
just  drafted  out  with  commissions  on  which  the  ink  was 
hardly  dry,  plucked  at  their  budding  mustaches  and  said 
"  War  is  hell." 

Some  of  the  older  officers,  who  had  been  called  out  after 
many  years  of  civilian  ease,  found  the  spirit  of  youth  again 
as  soon  as  they  set  foot  on  the  soil  of  France,  and  indulged  in 
the  follies  of  youth  as  when  they  had  been  sub-lieutenants  in 
the  Indian  hills.  I  remember  one  of  these  old  gentlemen  who 
refused  to  go  to  bed  in  the  Hotel  Tortoni  at  Havre,  though 
the  call  was  for  six  o'clock  next  morning,  with  quite  a  chance 
of  death  before  the  week  was  out.  Some  young  officers  with 
him  coaxed  him  to  his  room  just  before  midnight,  but  he  came 
down  again,  condemning  their  impudence,  and  went  out  into 
the  great  silent  square,  shouting  for  a  taxi.  It  seemed  to  me 
pitiful  that  a  man  with  so  many  ribbons  on  his  breast,  showing 
distinguished  service,  should  be  wandering  about  a  place  where 
many  queer  characters  roam  in  the  darkness  of  night.  I 
asked  him  if  I  could  show  him  the  way  back  to  the  Hotel 


THE     MEN     IN     KHAKI  345 

Tortoni.  "  Sir,"  he  said,  "  I  desire  to  go  to  Piccadilly 
Circus,  and  if  I  have  any  of  your  impertinence  I  will  break 
your  head."  Two  apaches  lurched  up  to  him,  a  few  minutes 
later,  and  he  went  off  with  them  into  a  dark  alley,  speaking 
French  with  great  deliberation  and  a  Mayfair  accent.  He 
was  a  twentieth-century  Falstaff,  and  the  playwright  might 
find  his  low  comedy  in  a  character  like  this  thrust  into  the 
grim  horror  of  the  war. 

One's  imagination  must  try  to  disintegrate  that  great 
collective  thing  called  an  army  and  see  it  as  much  as  possible 
as  a  number  of  separate  individualities,  with  their  differences 
of  temperament  and  ideals  and  habits  of  mind.  There  has 
been  too  much  of  the  impersonal  way  of  writing  of  our 
British  Expeditionary  Force  as  though  it  were  a  great  human 
machine  impelled  with  one  idea  and  moving  with  one  purpose. 
In  its  ranks  was  the  coster  with  his  cockney  speech  and 
cockney  wit,  his  fear  of  great  silence  and  his  sense  of  loneli- 
ness and  desolation  away  from  the  flare  of  gas-lights  and 
the  raucous  shouts  of  the  crowds  in  Petticoat  Lane  —  so  that 
when  I  met  him  in  a  field  of  Flanders  with  the  mist  and  the 
long,  flat  marshlands  about  him  he  confessed  to  the  almighty 
Hump.  And  there  was  the  Irish  peasant  who  heard  the 
voice  of  the  Banshee  calling  through  that  mist,  and  heard 
other  queer  voices  of  supernatural  beings  whispering  to  the 
melancholy  which  had  been  bred  in  his  brain  in  the  wilds  of 
Connemara.  Here  was  the  English  mechanic,  matter-of-fact, 
keen  on  his  job,  with  an  alert  brain  and  steady  nerves;  and 
with  him  was  the  Lowland  Scot,  hard  as  nails,  with  uncouth 
speech  and  a  savage  fighting  instinct.  Soldiers  who  had  been 
through  several  battles  and  knew  the  tricks  of  old  campaigners 
were  the  stiffening  in  regiments  of  younger  men  whose  first 
experience  of  shell-fire  was  soul-shattering,  so  that  some  of 
them  whimpered  and  were  blanched  with  fear.  In  the  ranks 
were  men  who  had  been  mob-orators,  and  who  had  once 
been  that  worst  of  pests,  a  "  barrack-room  lawyer."  They 
talked  Socialism  and  revolution  in  the  trenches  to  comrades 


346  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

who  saw  no  use  to  alter  the  good  old  ways  of  England  and 
"  could  find   no   manner   of   use "   for  political   balderdash. 
Can  you  not  see  all  these  men,  made  up  of  every  type  in  the 
life  of  the  British  Isles,  suddenly  transported  to  the  Continent 
and  thence  into  the  zone  of  fire  of  massed  artillery  which  put 
each  man  to  the   supreme   test   of  courage,  demanding  the 
last  strength  of  his  soul?     Some  of  them  had  been  slackers, 
rebels  against  discipline,  "  hard  cases."     Some  of  them  were 
sensitive  fellows  with  imaginations  over-developed  by  cine- 
matograph shows  and  the  unhealthfulness  of  life  in  cities. 
Some  of  them  were  no  braver  than  you,  or  I,  my  readers. 
And  yet  out  of  this  mass  of  manhood,  with  all  their  faults, 
vices,  coward  instincts,  pride  of  courage,  unexpressed  ideals, 
unconscious  patriotism,  old  traditions  of  pluck,  untutored 
faith  in  things  more  precious  than  self-interest  —  the  mixture 
that  one  finds  in  any  great  body  of  men  —  there  was  made  an 
army,  that  "  contemptible  little  army  "  of  ours  which  has 
added  a  deathless  story  of  human  valor  to  the  chronicles 
of  our  race.     These  men  who  came  out  with  the  first  Expe- 
ditionary Force  had  to  endure  a  mode  of  warfare  more  terrible 
than  anything  the  world  has  known  before,  and  for  week 
after  week,  month  after  month,   they  were  called  upon   to 
stand  firm  under  storms  of  shells  which  seemed  to  come  from 
no  human  agency,  but  to  be  devilish  in  intensity  and  fright- 
fulness    of    destruction.     Whole    companies    of    them    were 
annihilated,  whole  battalions  decimated,  yet  the   survivors 
were  led  to  the  shambles  again.     Great  gaps  were  torn  out 
of  famous  regiments  and  filled  up  with  new  men,  so  often 
that  the  old  regiment  was  but  a  name  and  the  last  remaining 
officers   and   men   were   almost  lost   among  the  new-comers. 
Yet  by  a  miracle  in  the  blood  of  the  British  race,  in  humanity 
itself,  if  it  is  not  decadent  beyond  the  point  of  renaissance, 
these  Cockneys  and  peasants,  Scotsmen  and  Irishmen,  and 
men  from  the  Midlands,  the  north,  and  the  home  counties  of 
this  little  England  faced  that  ordeal,  held  on,  and  did  not 
utter  aloud  (though  sometimes  secretly)  one  wailing  cry  to 


THE     MEN     IN     KHAKI  347 

God  for  mercy  in  all  this  hell.  With  a  pride  of  manhood 
beyond  one's  imagination,  with  a  stem  and  bitter  contempt 
for  all  this  devilish  torture,  loathing  it  but  "sticking  "  it, 
very  much  afraid  yet  refusing  to  surrender  to  the  coward 
in  their  souls  (the  coward  in  our  souls  which  tempts  all  of 
us),  sick  of  the  blood  and  the  beastliness,  yet  keeping  sane 
(for  the  most  part)  with  the  health  of  mortal  minds  and 
bodies  in  spite  of  all  this  wear  and  tear  upon  the  nerves,  the 
rank  and  file  of  that  British  Expedition  in  France  and 
Flanders,  under  the  leadership  of  young  men  who  gave  their 
lives,  with  the  largess  of  great  prodigals,  to  the  monstrous 
appetite  of  Death,  fought  with  something  like  superhuman 
qualities. 

Although  I  spent  most  of  my  time  on  the  Belgian  and 
French  side  of  the  war,  I  had  many  glimpses  of  the  British 
troops  who  were  enduring  these  things,  and  many  conversa- 
tions with  officers  and  men  who  had  come,  but  a  few  hours 
ago,  from  the  line  of  fire.  I  went  through  British  hospitals 
and  British  ambulance  trains  where  thousands  of  them  lay 
with  new  wounds,  and  I  dined  with  them  when  after  a  few 
weeks  of  convalescence  they  returned  to  the  front  to  undergo 
the  same  ordeal.  Always  I  felt  myself  touched  with  a  kind 
of  wonderment  at  these  men.  After  many  months  of  war 
the  unwounded  men  were  still  unchanged,  to  all  outward 
appearance,  though  something  had  altered  in  tlieir  souls. 
They  were  still  quiet,  self-controlled,  unemotional.  Only  by 
a  slight  nervousness  of  their  hands,  a  slightly  fidgety  way  so 
that  they  could  not  sit  still  for  very  long,  and  by  sudden 
lapses  into  silence,  did  some  of  them  show  the  signs  of  the 
strain  upon  them.  Even  the  lightly  wounded  men  were  as- 
toundingly  cheerful,  resolute,  and  unbroken.  There  were 
times  when  I  used  to  think  that  my  imagination  exaggerated 
the  things  I  had  seen  and  heard,  and  that  after  all  war  was 
not  so  terrible,  but  a  rather  hard  game  with  heavy  risks.  It 
Avas  only  when  I  walked  among  the  wounded  who  had  been 
more  than  "  touched,"  and  who  were  the  shattered  wrecks  of 


348  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

men,  that  I  realized  again  the  immensity  of  the  horror 
through  which  these  other  men  had  passed  and  to  which  some 
of  them  were  going  back.  When  the  shrieks  of  poor  tortured 
boys  rang  in  my  ears,  when  one  day  I  passed  an  officer  sitting 
up  in  his  cot  and  laughing  with  insane  mirth  at  his  own  image 
in  a  mirror,  and  when  I  saw  men  with  both  legs  amputated 
up  to  the  thighs,  or  with  one  leg  torn  to  ribbons,  and  another 
already  sawn  away,  lying  among  blinded  and  paralyzed  men, 
and  men  smashed  out  of  human  recognition  but  still  alive, 
then  I  knew  the  courage  of  those  others,  who,  having  seen 
and  known,  went  back  to  risk  the  same  frightfulness. 

There  was  always  a  drama  worth  watching  at  the  British 
base,  for  it  was  the  gate  of  those  who  came  in  and  of  those 
who  went  out,  "  the  halfway  house,"  as  a  friend  of  mine 
called  another  place  in  France,  between  the  front  and  home. 
Everything  came  here  first  —  the  food  for  guns  and  men, 
new  boots  for  soldiers  who  had  marched  the  leather  off  their 
feet;  the  comforters  and  body  belts  knitted  by  nimble- 
fingered  girls,  who  in  suburban  houses  and  country  factories 
had  put  a  little  bit  of  love  into  every  stitch ;  chloroform  and 
morphia  for  army  doctors  who  have  moments  of  despair 
when  their  bottles  get  empty;  ambulances,  instruments, 
uniforms,  motor  lorries ;  all  the  letters  which  came  to  France 
full  of  prayers  and  hopes ;  and  all  the  men  who  came  to  fill 
up  the  places  of  those  for  whom  there  are  still  prayers,  but  no 
more  hope  on  this  side  of  the  river.  It  was  the  base  of  the 
British  Expeditionary  Force,  and  the  army  in  the  field  would 
be  starved  in  less  than  a  week  if  it  were  cut  off  from  this 
port  of  supplies. 

There  was  a  hangar  here,  down  by  the  docks,  half  a  mile 
long.  I  suppose  it  was  the  largest  shed  in  the  world,  and  it 
was  certainly  the  biggest  store-cupboard  ever  kept  under 
lock  and  key  by  a  Mother  Hubbard  with  a  lot  of  hungry  boys 
to  feed.  Their  appetites  were  prodigious,  so  that  every  day 
thousands  of  cases  were  shifted  out  of  this  cupboard  and  sent 
by  train  and  motor-car  to  the  front.     But  always  new  cases 


THE     MEN     IN     KHAKI  349 

were  arriving  in  boats  that  were  piloted  into  harbor  across  a 
sea  where  strange  fish  came  up  from  the  deeps  at  times.  So 
the  hangar  was  never  empty,  and  on  the  signature  of  a  British 
officer  the  British  soldiers  miglit  be  sure  of  their  bully  beef, 
and  fairly  sure  of  a  clean  shirt  or  two  when  the  old  ones  had 
been  burned  by  the  order  of  a  medical  officer  with  a  delicate 
nose  and  high  ideals  in  a  trench. 

New  men  as  well  as  new  stores  came  in  the  boats  to  this 
harbor,  which  was  already  crowded  with  craft  not  venture- 
some in  a  sea  where  one  day  huge  submarine  creatures  lurked 
about.  I  watched  some  Tommies  arrive.  They  had  had  a 
nasty  "  dusting "  on  the  voyage,  and  as  they  marched 
through  the  streets  of  the  port  some  of  them  looked  rather 
washed  out.  They  carried  their  rifles  upside  down  as  though 
that  might  ease  the  burden  of  them,  and  they  had  that 
bluish  look  of  men  who  have  suifered  a  bad  bout  of  sea-sick- 
ness. But  they  pulled  themselves  up  when  they  came  into  the 
chief  square  where  the  French  girls  at  the  flower  stalls,  and 
ladies  at  the  hotel  windows,  and  a  group  of  French  and 
Belgian  soldiers  under  the  shelter  of  an  arcade,  watched  them 
pass  through  the  rain. 

"  Give  'em  their  old  tune,  lads,"  said  one  of  the  men,  and 
from  this  battalion  of  newcomers  who  had  just  set  foot  in 
France  to  fill  up  gaps  in  the  ranks,  out  there,  at  the  front, 
there  came  a  shrill  whistling  chorus  of  La  Marseillaise. 
Yorkshire  had  learned  the  hymn  of  France,  her  song  of  vic- 
tory, and  I  heard  it  on  the  lips  of  Highlanders  and  Welsh- 
men, who  came  tramping  through  the  British  base  to  the 
camps  outside  the  town  where  they  waited  to  be  sent  forward 
to  the  fighting  line. 

*'  Vive  les  Anglais ! "  cried  a  French  girl,  In  answer  to  the 
whistling  courtesy.  Then  she  laughed,  with  her  arm  around 
the  waist  of  a  girl  friend,  and  said,  "  They  are  all  the  same, 
these  English  soldiers.  In  their  khaki  one  cannot  tell  one 
from  the  other,  and  now  that  I  have  seen  so  many  thousands 
of  them  —  Heaven !  hundreds   of  thousands  !  —  I  have  ex- 


350  THE     SOUL     01"    THE;    WAR 

hausted  my  first  enthusiasm.     It  is  sad:  the  new  arrivals  do 
not  get  the  same  welcome  from  us." 

That  was  true.  So  many  of  our  soldiers  had  been  through 
the  British  base  that  they  were  no  longer  a  novelty.  The 
Frencli  flower-girls  did  not  empty  their  stalls  into  the  arms  of 
the  regiments,  as  on  the  first  days. 

It  was  an  English  voice  that  gave  the  newcomers  the 
highest  praise,  because  professional. 

"  A  hefty  lot !  .  .  .  Wish  I  were  leading  them." 

The  praise  and  the  wish  came  from  a  young  English 
officer  who  was  staying  in  the  same  hotel  with  me.  For  two 
days  I  had  watched  his  desperate  efforts  to  avoid  death  by 
boredom.  He  read  every  line  of  the  Matin  and  Journal  be- 
fore luncheon,  with  tragic  sighs,  because  every  line  repeated 
what  had  been  said  in  the  French  newspapers  since  the  early 
days  of  the  war.  After  luncheon  he  made  a  sortie  for  the 
English  newspapers,  which  arrived  by  boats.  They  kept  him 
quiet  until  tea-time.  After  that  he  searched  the  cafes  for 
any  fellow  officer  who  might  be  there. 

"  This  is  the  most  awful  place  in  the  world ! "  he 
repeated  at  intervals,  even  to  the  hall  porter,  who  agreed 
with  him.  When  I  asked  him  how  long  he  had  been  at  the 
base  he  groaned  miserably  and  confessed  to  three  weeks  of 
purgatory. 

"  I've  been  put  into  the  wrong  pigeon-hole  at  the  War 
Office,"  he  said.     "  I'm  lost." 

There  were  many  other  men  at  the  British  base  who  seemed 
to  have  been  put  into  the  wrong  pigeon-holes.  Among 
them  were  about  two  hundred  French  interpreters  who 
were  waiting  orders  to  proceed  with  a  certain  division.  But 
they  were  not  so  restless  as  my  friend  in  the  hotel.  Was  it 
not  enough  for  them  that  they  had  been  put  into  English 
khaki  —  supplied  from  the  store-cupboard  —  and  that  every 
morning  they  had  to  practise  the  art  of  putting  on  a  puttee.'' 
In  order  to  be  perfectly  English  they  also  practised  the  art  of 
smoking  a  briar  pipe  —  it  was  astoundingly  difficult  to  keep 


THE     MEN     IN     KHAKI  351 

it  alight  —  and  indulged  in  the  habit  of  five  o'clock  tea  (witli 
boiled  eggs,  ye  gods!),  and  braved  all  the  horrors  of  indiges- 
tion, because  they  are  not  used  to  these  things,  with  heroic 
fortitude.  At  any  cost  they  were  determined  to  do  honor 
to  "  le  khaki,"  in  spite  of  the  arrogance  of  certain  British 
officers  who  treated  them  de  haut  en  has. 

The  base  commandant's  office  was  the  sorting-house  of 
the  Expeditionary  Force.  The  relays  of  officers  who  had 
just  come  off  the  boats  came  here  to  report  themselves. 
They  had  sailed  as  it  were  under  sealed  orders  and  did  not 
know  their  destination  until  they  were  enlightened  by  the 
commandant  who  received  instructions  from  the  head- 
quarters in  the  field.  They  waited  about  in  groups  outside 
his  door,  slapping  their  riding  boots  or  twisting  neat  little 
mustaches,  which  were  the  envy  of  subalterns  just  out  of 
Sandhurst. 

Through  another  door  was  the  registry  office  through 
which  all  the  army's  letters  passed  inwards  and  outwards. 
The  military  censors  were  there  reading  the  letters  of  Private 
Atkins  to  his  best  girl,  and  to  his  second  best.  They  shook 
their  heads  over  military  strategy  written  in  the  trenches, 
and  laughed  quietly  at  the  humor  of  men  who  looked  on 
the  best  side  of  things,  even  if  they  were  German  shells  or 
French  fleas.  It  was  astonishing  what  a  lot  of  humor 
passed  through  this  central  registry  from  men  who  were 
having  a  tragic  time  for  England's  sake,  but  sometimes  the 
military  censor  had  to  blow  his  nose  with  violence  because 
Private  Atkins  lapsed  into  pathos,  and  wrote  of  tragedy 
with  a  too  poignant  truth. 

The  base  commandant  was  here  at  all  hours.  Even 
two  hours  after  midnight  he  sat  in  the  inner  room  with  tired 
secretaries  who  marveled  at  the  physical  and  mental  strength 
of  a  man  who  at  that  hour  could  still  dictate  letters  full  of 
important  detail  without  missing  a  point  or  a  comma ;  though 
he  came  down  early  in  the  morning.  But  he  was  responsible 
for  the  guarding  of  the  army's  store-cupboard  —  that  great 


359  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

hangar,  half  a  mile  long  —  and  for  the  discipline  of  a  town 
full  of  soldiers  who,  without  discipline,  would  make  a  merry 
hell  of  it,  and  for  the  orderly  disposition  of  all  the  supplies 
at  the  base  upon  which  the  army  in  the  field  depends  for  its 
welfare.     It  was  not  what  men  call  a  soft  job. 

Through  the  hotel  where  I  stayed  there  was  a  continual 
flow  of  officers  who  came  for  one  night  only.  Their  kitbags 
and  sleeping-bags  were  dumped  into  the  hall,  and  these 
young  gentlemen,  some  of  whom  had  been  gazetted  only  a 
few  months  ago,  crowded  into  the  little  drawing-room  to 
write  their  letters  home  before  going  to  the  front,  and  to 
inquire  of  each  other  what  on  earth  there  was  to  do  in  a 
town  where  lights  are  out  at  ten  o'clock,  where  the  theaters 
were  all  closed,  and  where  rain  was  beating  down  on  the 
pavements  outside. 

"How  about  a  bath?"  said  one  of  them.  "It  is  about 
the  last  chance,  I  reckon." 

They  took  turns  to  the  bathroom,  thinking  of  the  mud 
and  vermin  of  the  trenches  which  would  soon  be  their  home. 
Among  those  who  stayed  in  the  sitting-room  until  the  patron 
turned  out  the  lights  were  several  officers  who  had  been  on 
forty-eighty  hours'  leave  from  the  front.  They  had  made  a 
dash  to  London  and  back,  they  had  seen  the  lights  of  Picca- 
dilly again,  and  the  crowds  in  the  streets  of  a  city  which 
seemed  to  know  nothing  of  war,  they  had  dined  with  women 
in  evening-dress  who  had  asked  innocent  questions  about 
the  way  of  a  modern  battlefield,  and  they  had  said  good-by 
again  to  those  who  clung  to  them  a  little  too  long  outside  a 
carriage  window. 

"  Worth  it,  do  you  think?  "  asked  one  of  them. 

"  Enormously  so.  But  it's  a  bit  of  a  pull  —  going  back 
to  that  —  beastliness.     After  one  knows  the  meaning  of  it." 

"  It's  because  I  know  that  I  want  to  go  back,"  said 
another  man  who  had  sat  very  quietly  looking  at  the  toe 
of  one  of  his  riding-boots.  "  I  had  a  good  time  in  town  — 
it  seemed  too  good  to  be  true  —  but,  after  all,  one  has  to 


THE     MEN     IN     KHAKI  853 

finish  one's  job  before  one  can  sit  around  with  an  easy  mind. 
We've  got  to  finish  our  job  out  there  in  the  stinking  trenches." 

I  suppose  even  now  after  all  that  has  been  written  it  is 
difficult  for  the  imagination  of  "  the  man  who  stayed  at 
home "  to  realize  the  life  and  conditions  of  the  soldiers 
abroad.  So  many  phrases  which  appeared  day  by  day  in 
the  newspapers  conveyed  no  more  than  a  vague,  uncertain 
meaning. 

"  The  front " —  how  did  it  look,  that  place  which  was 
drawn  in  a  jagged  black  line  across  the  map  on  the  wall? 
"  General  Headquarters  " —  what  sort  of  a  place  was  that 
in  which  the  Commander-in-Chief  lived  with  his  staff,  direct- 
ing the  operations  in  the  fighting  lines?     "An  attack  was 

made  yesterday  upon  the  enemy's  position  at .     A  line 

of  trenches  was  carried  by  assault."  So  ran  the  official  bul- 
letin, but  the  wife  of  a  soldier  abroad  could  not  fill  in  the  pic- 
ture, the  father  of  a  young  Territorial  could  not  get  enough 
detail  upon  which  his  imagination  might  build.  For  all 
those  at  home,  whose  spirits  came  out  to  Flanders  seeking 
to  get  into  touch  with  young  men  who  were  fighting  for 
honor's  sake,  it  was  difficult  to  form  any  kind  of  mental 
vision,  giving  a  clear  and  true  picture  of  this  great  adven- 
ture in  "  foreign  parts." 

They  would  have  been  surprised  at  the  reality,  it  was  so 
different  from  all  their  previous  imaginings.  General  Head- 
quarters, for  instance,  was  a  surprise  to  those  who  came  to 
such  a  place  for  the  first  time.  It  was  not,  when  I  went 
there  some  months  ago,  a  very  long  distance  from  the  fight- 
ing lines  in  these  days  of  long-range  guns,  but  it  was  a  place 
of  strange  quietude  in  which  it  was  easy  to  forget  the  actual- 
ities of  war  —  until  one  was  reminded  by  sullen  far-off  rum- 
blings which  made  the  windows  tremble,  and  made  men  lift 
their  heads  a  moment  to  say :  "  They  are  busy  out  there 
to-day." 

There  were  no  great  movements  of  troops  in  the  streets. 
Most  of  the  soldiers  one  saw  were  staff  officers,  who  walked 


35^  THE     SOUL    OF    THE     WAR 

briskly  from  one  building  to  another  with  no  more  than  a 
word  and  a  smile  to  any  friend  they  met  on  the  way.  Sentries 
stood  outside  the  doorways  of  big  houses. 

Here  and  there  at  the  street  corners  was  a  military 
policeman,  scrutinizing  any  newcomer  in  civilian  clothes  with 
watchful  eyes.  Church  bells  tinkled  for  early  morning  Mass 
or  Benediction.  Through  an  open  window  looking  out  upon 
a  broad  courtyard  the  voices  of  school  children  came  chanting 
their  A  B  C's  in  French,  as  though  no  war  had  taken  away 
their  fathers.     There  was  an  air  of  profound  peace  here. 

At  night,  when  I  stood  at  an  open  window  listening  to  the 
silence  of  the  place,  it  was  hard,  even  though  I  knew,  to  think 
that  here  in  this  town  was  the  Headquarters  Staff  of  the 
greatest  army  England  has  ever  sent  abroad,  and  that  the 
greatest  war  in  history  was  being  fought  out  only  a  few 
miles  away.  The  raucous  horn  of  a  motor-car,  the  panting 
of  a  motor-cycle,  the  rumble  of  a  convoy  of  ambulances,  the 
shock  of  a  solitary  gun,  came  as  the  only  reminders  of  the 
great  horror  away  there  through  the  darkness.  A  despatch 
rider  was  coming  back  from  a  night  ride  on  a  machine  which 
had  side-slipped  all  the  way  from  Ypres.  An  officer  was 
motoring  back  to  a  divisional  headquarters  after  a  late  inter- 
view with  the  chief.  .  .  .  The  work  went  on,  though  it  was 
very  quiet  in  General  Headquarters. 

But  the  brains  of  the  army  were  not  asleep.  Behind  those 
doors,  guarded  by  sentries,  men  in  khaki  uniforms,  with  just 
a  touch  of  red  about  the  collar,  were  bending  over  maps  and 
documents  —  studying  the  lines  of  German  trenches  as  they 
had  been  sketched  out  by  aviators  flying  above  German  shrap- 
nel, writing  out  orders  for  ammunition  to  be  sent  in  a  hurry 
to  a  certain  point  on  the  fighting  line  where  things  were  very 
"  busy  "  in  the  afternoon,  ordering  the  food-supplies  wanted 
by  a  division  of  hungry  men  whose  lorries  are  waiting  at  the 
rail-head  for  bread  and  meat  and  a  new  day's  rations. 

"  Things  are  going  very  well,"  said  one  of  the  officers,  with 
a  glance  at  a  piece  of  flimsy  paper  which  had  just  come  from 


THE     MEN     IN     KHAKI  355 

llie  Signals  Department  across  the  street.  But  things  would 
not  have  gone  so  well  unless  at  General  Headquarters  every 
officer  had  done  his  duty  to  the  last  detail,  whatever  the 
fatigue  of  body  or  spirit.  The  place  was  quiet,  because  the 
work  was  done  behind  closed  doors  in  these  private  houses 
of  French  and  Flemish  bourgeoisie  whose  family  portraits 
hang  upon  the  walls.  Outside  I  could  not  see  the  spirit  of 
war  unless  I  searched  for  it. 

It  was  after  I  had  left  "  G.  H.  Q."  that  I  saw  something 
of  the  human  side  of  war  and  all  its  ceaseless  traffic.  Yet 
even  then,  as  I  traveled  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  front,  I  was 
astounded  at  the  silence,  the  peacefulness  of  the  scenery 
about  me,  the  absence  of  all  tragic  sights.  That  day,  on  the 
way  to  a  place  which  was  very  close  to  the  German  lines, 
children  were  playing  on  the  roadside,  and  old  women  in  black 
gowns  trudged  down  the  long,  straight  highroads,  with  their 
endless  sentinels  of  trees. 

In  a  furrowed  field  a  peasant  was  sowing  the  seed  for  an 
autumn  harvesting,  and  I  watched  his  swinging  gestures  from 
left  to  right,  which  seem  symbolical  of  all  that  peace  means 
and  of  all  nature's  life  and  beauty.  The  seed  is  scattered  and 
God  does  the  rest,  though  men  may  kill  each  other  and  invent 
new  ways  of  death.  .  .  . 

But  the  roads  were  encumbered  and  the  traffic  of  war 
was  surging  forward  ceaselessly  in  a  muddled,  confused,  aim- 
less sort  of  way,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  before  I  knew  the  system 
and  saw  the  working  of  the  brain  behind  it  all.  A  long 
train  of  carts  without  horses  stood,  shafts  down,  on  the 
muddy  side  of  the  road.  Little  blue  and  red  flags  fluttered 
above  them.  A  group  of  soldiers  were  lounging  in  their 
neighborhood,  waiting,  it  seems,  for  something  to  turn  up. 
Perhaps  that  something  was  a  distant  train  which  came  with 
a  long  trail  of  smoke  across  the  distant  marshlands. 

At  the  railway  crossing  there  was  a  great  park  of  motor 
lorries.  They,  too,  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  new  loads. 
Obviously  this  was  one  of  the  "  raillieads  "  about  which  I 


366  THE     SOUL    OF    THE    WAR 

had  a  lecture  that  morning  from  a  distinguished  officer,  who 
thinks  in  railheads  and  refilling  stations  and  other  details  of 
transport  upon  which  the  annies  in  the  field  depend  for  their 
food  and  ammunition.  Without  that  explanation  all  these 
roadside  halts,  all  these  stationary  lorries  and  forage  carts 
would  have  seemed  like  a  temporary  stagnation  in  the  business 
of  war,  with  nothing  doing. 

A  thrill  comes  to  every  one  when  he  sees  bodies  of  British 
troops  moving  along  the  roads.  He  is  glad  when  his  motor- 
car gets  held  up  by  some  old  wagons  slithering  axle  deep  in 
the  quagmire  on  the  side  of  the  paved  highway,  so  that  he  can 
put  his  head  out  and  shout  a  "  Hullo,  boys !  How's  it  going.? 
And  who  are  you  ?  "  After  all  the  thrill  of  the  recruiting 
days,  all  the  excitement  of  the  send-off,  all  the  enthusiasm  with 
which  they  sang  Tipperary  through  the  streets  of  their  first 
port  of  call  in  France,  they  had  settled  down  to  the  real  busi- 
ness. 

Some  of  them  had  been  into  the  trenches  for  the  first  time 
a  night  or  two  before.  "  How  did  you  like  it.?  "  Well,  it 
wasn't  amusing  to  them,  it  seems,  but  they  "  stuck  it."  They 
were  ready  to  go  again.  That  was  the  spirit  of  it  all.  They 
"  stuck  it,"  gamely,  without  grousing,  without  swanking, 
without  any  other  thought  than  suffering  all  the  hardships 
and  all  the  thrills  of  war  like  men  who  know  the  gravity  of  the 
game,  and  the  risks,  and  the  duty  to  which  they  have  pledged 
themselves. 

I  passed  thousands  of  these  men  on  a  long  motor  journey 
on  my  first  day  at  the  British  front,  and  though  I  could  not 
speak  to  very  many  of  them  I  saw  on  all  their  faces  the  same 
hard,  strong,  dogged  look  of  men  who  were  being  put  through 
a  great  ordeal  and  who  would  not  fail  through  any  moral 
weakness.  They  were  tired,  some  of  them,  after  a  long 
march,  but  they  grinned  back  cheery  answers  to  my  greetings, 
and  scrambled  merrily  for  the  few  packets  of  cigarettes  I 
tossed  to  them. 

Thousands  of  these  khaki-clad  fellows  lay  along  the  road- 


THE     MEN     IN     KHAKI  357 

sides  looking,  in  the  distance,  as  though  great  masses  of 
russet  leaves  had  fallen  from  autumn  trees.  They  were  hav- 
ing a  rest  on  their  way  up  to  the  front,  and  their  heads  were 
upon  each  other's  shoulders  in  a  comradely  way,  while  some 
lay  face  upwards  to  the  sky  with  their  hands  folded  behind 
their  heads,  in  a  brown  study  and  careless  of  everything  that 
passed. 

Away  across  marshy  fields,  intersected  by  pools  and 
rivulets,  I  saw  our  men  billeted  in  French  and  Flemish  farm- 
houses, of  the  old  post-and-plaster  kind,  like  those  in 
English  villages. 

They  seemed  thoroughly  at  home,  and  were  chopping  wood 
and  drawing  water  and  cooking  stews,  and  arranging  straw 
beds  in  the  bams,  and  busying  themselves  with  all  the  do- 
mestic side  of  life  as  quietly  and  cheerily  as  though  they  were 
on  maneuvers  in  Devonshire  or  Surrey,  where  war  is  only  a 
game  without  death  in  the  roar  of  a  gun.  Well  fed  and  well 
clothed,  hard  as  nails,  in  spite  of  all  their  hardships,  they 
gave  me  a  sense  of  pride  as  I  watched  them,  for  the  spirit  of 
the  old  race  was  in  them,  and  they  would  stick  it  through  thick 
and  thin. 

I  passed  that  day  through  the  shell-stricken  town  of  Ypres 
and  wandered  through  the  great  tragedy  of  the  Cloth  Hall  — 
that  old  splendor  in  stone  which  was  now  a  gaunt  and  ghastly 
ruin.  British  soldiers  were  buying  picture  postcards  at 
booths  in  the  market  place,  and  none  of  them  seemed  to  worry 
because  at  any  moment  another  shell  might  come  crashing 
across  the  shattered  roofs  with  a  new  message  of  destruction. 

Yet  on  all  this  journey  of  mine  in  the  war  zone  of  the 
British  fronjb  for  at  least  100  kilometers  or  so  there  was  no 
thrill  or  shock  of  war  itself.  A  little  way  off,  on  some  parts 
of  the  road  men  were  in  the  trenches  facing  the  enemy  only  a 
few  yards  distant  from  their  hiding  places. 

The  rumble  of  guns  rolled  sullenly  now  and  then  across 
the  marshlands,  and  one  knew  intellectually,  but  not 
instinctively,  that  if  one's  motor-car  took  the  wrong  turning 


858  THE     SOUL     OF    THE     WAR 

and  traveled  a  mile  or  two  heedlessly,  sudden  death  would 
call  a  halt. 

And  that  was  the  strangeness  of  it  all  —  the  strangeness 
that  startled  me  as  I  drove  back  to  the  quietude  of  the  Gen- 
eral Headquarters,  as  darkness  came  down  upon  this  low- 
l^'ing  countryside  and  put  its  cloak  about  the  figures  of 
British  soldiers  moving  to  their  billets,  and  gave  a  ghostliness 
to  the  tall,  tufted  trees,  which  seemed  to  come  striding 
towards  my  headlights. 

In  this  siege  warfare  of  the  trenches  there  was  a  deadly 
stillness  behind  the  front  and  a  queer  absence  of  war's 
tumult  and  turmoil.  Yet  all  the  time  it  was  going  on  slowly, 
yard  by  yard,  trench  by  trench,  and  somewhere  along  the 
front  men  were  always  fighting  and  dying. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  a  staff  officer  that  night,  "  there  has 
been  good  work  to-day.  We  have  taken  several  lines  of 
trenches,  and  the  operation  is  proceeding  very  well." 

We  bent  over  his  map,  following  the  line  drawn  by  his 
finger,  listening  to  details  of  a  grim  bit  of  work,  glad  that 
five  hundred  German  prisoners  had  been  taken  that  day.  As 
he  spoke  the  window  rattled,  and  we  heard  the  boom  of 
another  gun.  .  .  .  The  war  was  going  on,  though  it  had 
seemed  so  quiet  at  the  front. 

For  several  months  there  was  comparative  quietude  at  the 
British  front  after  the  tremendous  attacks  upon  our  lines 
at  Soissons  and  Venizel  and  Vic-sur-Aisne,  and  the  still  more 
bloody  battles  round  Ypres  in  the  autumn  of  the  first  year 
of  war.  Each  side  settled  down  for  the  winter  campaign,  and 
killing  was  done  by  continual  artillery  fire,  with  only  occa- 
sional bayonet  charges  between  trench  and  trench.  That 
long  period  of  dark  wet  days  was  the  most  tragic  ordeal  of 
our  men,  and  a  time  when  depression  settled  heavily  upon 
their  spirits,  so  that  not  all  their  courage  could  keep  any 
flame  of  enthusiasm  in  their  hearts  for  such  fine  words  as 
honor  and  glory.  In  "  Plug  Street "  and  other  lines  of 
trenches  they  stood  in  water  with  walls  of  oozy  mud  about 


THE     MEN     IN     KHAKI  359 

them,  until  their  legs  rotted  and  became  black  with  a  false 
frostbite, » until  many  of  them  were  carried  away  with 
bronchitis  and  pneumonia,  and  until  all  of  them,  however 
many  comforters  they  tied  about  their  necks,  or  however 
many  body-belts  they  used,  were  shivering,  sodden  scarecrows, 
plastered  with  slime.  They  crawled  with  lice,  these  decent 
Englishmen  from  good  clean  homes,  these  dandy  men  who  once 
upon  a  time  had  strolled  down  the  sweet  shady  side  of  Pall 
Mall,  immaculate,  and  fragrant  as  their  lavender  kid  gloves. 
They  were  eaten  alive  by  these  vermin  and  suffered  the  intol- 
erable agony  of  itch.  Strange  and  terrible  diseases  attacked 
some  of  them,  though  the  poisonous  microbes  were  checked  by 
vigilant  men  in  laboratories  behind  the  front  before  they  could 
spread  an  epidemic.  For  the  first  time  men  without  science 
heard  the  name  of  cerebro-spinal  meningitis  and  shuddered 
at  it.  The  war  became  a  hopeless,  dreary  thing,  without  a 
thrill  to  it,  except  when  men  wading  in  water  were  smashed  by 
shell-fire  and  floated  about  in  a  bloody  mess  which  ran  red 
through  all  a  trench.  That  was  a  thrill  of  beastliness,  but 
gave  no  fire  to  men's  hearts.  Passion,  if  it  had  ever  burned 
in  these  British  soldiers'  hearts,  had  smoldered  out  into  the 
white  ash  of  patient  misery.  Certainly  there  was  no  passion 
of  hatred  against  the  enemy,  not  far  away  there  in  the 
trenches.  These  Germans  were  enduring  the  same  hardships, 
and  the  same  squalor.  There  was  only  pity  for  them  and  a 
sense  of  comradeship,  as  of  men  forced  by  the  cruel  gods  to  be 
tortured  by  fate. 

This  sense  of  comradeship  reached  strange  lengths  at 
Christmas,  and  on  other  days.  Truces  were  established  and 
men  who  had  been  engaged  in  trying  to  kill  each  other  came 
out  of  opposite  trenches  and  fraternized.  They  took  pho- 
tographs of  mixed  groups  of  Germans  and  English,  arm-in- 
arm. They  exchanged  cigarettes,  and  patted  each  other  on 
the  shoulder,  and  cursed  the  war.  .  .  .  The  war  had  become 
the  most  tragic  farce  in  the  world.  The  frightful  senseless- 
ness of  it  was  apparent  when  the  enemies  of  two  nations  fight- 


360  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

ing  to  the  death  stood  in  the  gray  mist  together  and  liked 
each  other.  They  did  not  want  to  kill  each  other,  these 
Saxons  of  the  same  race  and  blood,  so  like  each  other  in 
physical  appearance,  and  with  the  same  human  qualities. 
They  were  both  under  the  spell  of  high,  distant  Powers  which 
had  decreed  this  warfare,  and  had  so  enslaved  them  that 
like  gladiators  in  the  Roman  amphitheaters  they  killed  men  so 
that  they  should  not  be  put  to  death  by  their  task-masters. 
The  monstrous  absurdity  of  war,  this  devil's  jest,  stood  re- 
vealed nakedly  by  those  little  groups  of  men  standing  together 
in  the  mists  of  Flanders.  ...  It  became  so  apparent  that 
army  orders  had  to  be  issued  stopping  such  truces.  They 
were  issued,  but  not  always  obeyed.  For  months  after 
German  and  British  soldiers  in  neighboring  trenches  fixed 
up  secret  treaties  by  which  they  fired  at  fixed  targets  at 
stated  periods  to  keep  up  appearances,  and  then  strolled 
about  in  safety,  sure  of  each  other's  loyalty. 

From  one  trench  a  German  officer  signaled  to  one  of  our 
own  lieutenants. 

"  I  have  six  of  your  men  in  my  trench.     What  shall  I  do 
with  them?" 

The  lieutenant  signaled  back. 

"  I  have  two  of  yours.     This  is  ridiculous." 

The  English  officer  spoke  to  the  two  Germans. 

"  Look  here,  you  had  better  clear  out.  Otherwise  I  shall 
have  to  make  you  prisoners." 

"  We  want  to  be  prisoners,"  said  the  Germans,  who  spoke 
English  with  the  accent  of  the  Tottenham  Court  Road. 

It  appears  that  the  lieutenant  would  not  oblige  them,  and 
begged  them  to  play  the  game. 

So  with  occasional  embarrassments  like  this  to  break  the 
deadly  monotony  of  life,  and  to  make  men  think  about  the 
mystery  of  human  nature,  coerced  to  massacre  by  sovereign 
powers  beyond  their  ken,  the  winter  passed,  in  one  long  wet 
agony,  in  one  great  bog  of  misery. 

It  was  in  March,  when  the  roads  had  begun  to  dry  up,  that 


THE     MEN     IN     KHAKI  361 

our  troops  resumed  the  offensive  at  several  points  of  the  line. 
I  was  at  General  Headquarters  when  the  first  news  of  the  first 
day's  attack  at  Neuve  Chapelle  was  brought  in  by  despatch 
riders. 

We  crowded  again  round  a  table  where  a  staff  officer  had 
spread  out  his  map  and  showed  us  the  general  disposition 
of  the  troops  engaged  in  the  operation.  The  vague  tremor 
of  distant  guns  gave  a  grim  significance  to  his  words,  and  on 
our  own  journey  that  day  we  had  seen  many  signs  of  organ- 
ized activity  bearing  upon  this  attack. 

But  we  were  to  see  a  more  impressive  demonstration  of  the 
day's  success,  the  human  counters  which  had  been  won  by 
our  side  in  this  game  of  life  and  death.  Nearly  a  thousand 
German  prisoners  had  been  taken,  and  were  being  brought 
down  from  the  front  by  rail.  If  we  liked  we  might  have  a 
talk  with  these  men,  and  see  the  character  of  the  enemy 
which  lies  hidden  in  the  trenches  opposite  our  lines.  It  was 
nearly  ten  o'clock  at  night  when  we  motored  to  the  railway 
junction  through  which  they  were  passing. 

Were  the}'^  glad  to  be  out  of  the  game,  away  from  the 
shriek  of  shells  and  out  of  the  mud?  I  framed  the  question 
in  German  as  I  clambered  on  to  the  footboard  at  a  part  of 
the  train  where  the  trucks  ended  and  where  German  officers 
had  been  given  the  luxury  of  first-class  carriages. 

Two  of  them  looked  up  with  drowsy  eyes,  into  which  there 
came  a  look  of  surprise  and  then  of  displeasure  as  I  spoke  a 
few  words  to  them.  Opposite  me  was  a  fair  young  man,  with 
soft  blond  hair  and  a  silky  mustache.  He  looked  like  a 
Saxon,  but  told  me  afterwards  that  he  came  from  Cologne. 
Next  to  him  was  a  typical  3'oung  aristocrat  of  the  Bavarian 
tj'pe,  in  the  uniform  of  a  Jaeger  Regiment.  In  the  same 
carriage  were  some  other  officers  sleeping  heavily.  One  of 
them,  with  a  closely-cropped  bullet  head  and  the  low-browed 
face  of  a  man  who  fights  according  to  the  philosophy  of 
Bernhardi,  without  pity,  sat  up  abruptly,  swore  a  fierce  word 
or  two,  and  then  fell  back  and  snored  again. 


362  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

The  two  younger  men  answered  some  of  my  questions, 
sullenly  at  first,  but  afterwards  with  more  friendliness,  against 
which  their  pride  struggled.  But  they  had  not  much  to  say. 
They  were  tired.  They  had  been  taken  by  surprise.  They 
would  have  time  to  learn  English  as  prisoners  of  war.  They 
had  plenty  of  food  and  tobacco. 

When  the  next  batch  of  them  arrived  I  was  able  to  get 
into  a  closed  truck,  among  the  private  soldiers.  They  were 
quite  comfortable  in  there,  and  were  more  cheery  than  the 
officers  in  the  other  train,  I  was  surprised  by  their  cleanli- 
ness, by  the  good  condition  of  their  uniforms,  and  by  their 
good  health  and  spirits.  The  life  of  the  trenches  had  not 
left  its  marks  upon  them,  though  mentally,  perhaps,  they 
had  gone  to  the  uttermost  limit  of  endurance.  Only  one 
man  fired  up  savagely  when  I  said  that  they  were  lucky  in 
being  captured.  "  It  is  good  to  fight  for  the  Fatherland," 
he  said.  The  others  made  no  secret  of  their  satisfaction  in 
being  out  of  it  all,  and  all  of  them  described  the  attack  on 
Neuve  Chapelle  as  a  hellish  thing  which  had  caught  them  by 
surprise  and  swept  their  ranks. 

I  went  back  to  my  billet  in  General  Headquarters  wishing 
that  I  had  seen  something  of  that  affair  which  had  netted 
aU  these  men.  It  had  been  a  "  day  out  "  for  the  British 
troops,  and  we  had  not  yet  heard  of  the  blunders  or  the 
blood  that  had  spoilt  its  success.  It  was  hard  to  have  seen 
nothing  of  it  though  so  near  the  front.  And  then  a  promise 
of  seeing  something  of  the  operations  on  the  morrow  came  as 
a  prospect  for  the  next  day.  It  would  be  good  to  see  the  real 
business  again  and  to  thrill  once  more  to  the  awful  music  of 
the  guns. 

Along  the  road  next  day  it  was  obvious  that  "  things  "  were 
going  to  happen.  As  we  passed  through  towns  in  our  motor- 
cars there  were  signs  of  increased  activity.  Troops  were 
being  moved  up.  Groups  of  them  in  goatskin  coats,  so  that 
English  Tommies  looked  like  their  Viking  ancestors,  halted 
for  a  spell  by  the  side  of  their  stacked  arms,  waiting  for 


THE     MEN     IN     KHAKI 

orders.  Long  lines  of  motor  lorries,  with  supplies  to  feed  the 
men  and  guns,  narrowed  the  highway  for  traffic.  Officers 
approached  our  cars  at  every  halt,  saluted  our  staff  officer, 
and  asked  anxious  questions.  "  How  are  things  going?  Is 
there  any  news  ?  " 

In  the  open  country  we  could  see  the  battle  front,  the  low- 
lying  marshlands  with  windmills  waving  their  arms  on  the  far 
horizon,  the  ridges  and  woods  in  which  British  and  German 
batteries  were  concealed,  and  the  lines  of  trenches  in  which 
our  men  lay  very  close  to  their  enemy.  We  left  the  cars  and, 
slithering  in  sticky  mud,  made  our  way  up  a  hillock  on  which 
one  of  these  innumerable  windmills  stood  distinct.  We  were 
among  the  men  who  were  in  the  actual  fighting  lines  and  who 
went  into  the  trenches  turn  and  turn  about,  so  that  it  became 
the  normal  routine  of  their  lives. 

In  the  early  days  of  the  war  these  regiments  had  suffered 
heavy  losses,  so  that  there  were  new  drafts  in  it  now,  but  there 
were  lads  here  who  had  fought  at  Mons  and  Charleroi  and  had 
seen  their  comrades  fall  in  heaps  round  about  Le  Cateau. 
They  told  their  tales,  with  old  memories  of  terror,  which  had 
not  made  cowards  of  them.  Their  chief  interest  to-day  was 
centered  in  a  football  match  which  was  to  take  place  about 
the  same  time  as  the  "  other  business."  It  was  not  their  day 
out  in  the  firing  line.  We  left  them  putting  on  their  football 
boots  and  hurling  chaff  at  each  other  in  the  dim  light.  Out 
of  the  way  of  the  flying  shells,  they  forgot  all  about  the  hor- 
ror of  war  for  a  little  while. 

Forcing  our  way  through  the  brushwood  on  the  slopes,  we 
reached  the  crest  of  the  hillock.  Near  by  stood  two  gen- 
erals and  several  staff  officers  —  men  whose  names  have  been 
written  many  times  in  the  Chief's  despatches  and  will  be 
written  for  all  time  in  the  history  of  this  war.  They  were 
at  their  post  of  observation,  to  watch  the  progress  of  an 
attack  which  was  timed  to  begin  shortly. 

Presently  two  other  figures  came  up  the  hillside.  One  of 
them  arrested  my  attention.     Who  was  that  young  officer, 


364  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

a  mere  boy,  who  came  toiling  up  through  the  slime  and  mud, 
and  who  at  the  crest  halted  and  gave  a  quick  salute  to  the 
two  generals?  He  turned,  and  I  saw  that  it  was  Edward, 
Prince  of  Wales,  and  through  the  afternoon,  when  I  glanced 
at  him  now  and  again  as  he  studied  his  map  and  gazed  across 
the  fields,  I  thought  of  another  Edward,  Prince  of  Wales,  who 
six  centuries  ago  stood  in  another  field  of  France.  Out  of 
the  past  came  old  ghosts  of  history,  who  once  as  English 
princes  and  knights  and  men-at-arms  fought  at  St.  Omer,  and 
Ypres,  Bailleul,  and  Bethune,  and  on  that  very  ground  which 
lay  before  me  now.  .  .   . 

More  than  an  hour  before  the  time  at  which  the  attack 
was  to  be  concentrated  upon  the  enemy's  position  —  a  line 
of  trenches  on  a  ridge  crowned  by  a  thin  wood  immediately 
opposite  my  observation  point  —  our  guns  began  to  speak 
from  many  different  places.  It  was  a  demonstration  to 
puzzle  the  enemy  as  to  the  objective  of  our  attack. 

The  flashes  came  like  the  flicking  of  heliographs  signaling 
messages  by  a  Morse  code  of  death.  After  each  flash  came 
the  thunderous  report  and  a  rushing  noise  as  though  great 
birds  were  in  flight  behind  the  veil  of  mist  which  lay  on  the 
hillsides.  Puffs  of  woolly-white  smoke  showed  where  the 
shrapnel  was  bursting,  and  these  were  wisped  away  into  the 
heavy  clouds.  Now  and  again  one  heard  the  high  singing 
note  of  shells  traveling  towards  us  —  the  German  answer  to 
this  demonstration  —  and  one  saw  the  puff  balls  resting  on 
the  hill-spur  opposite  our  observation  post. 

Presently  the  fire  became  less  scattered,  and  as  the 
appointed  hour  approached  our  batteries  aimed  only  in  one 
direction.  It  was  the  ridge  to  the  left  of  the  hill  where  lines 
of  German  trenches  had  been  dug  below  the  fringe  of  wood. 
That  place  must  have  been  a  hell  for  half  an  hour  or  more. 
Through  the  mist  and  the  drowsy  smoke  I  could  see  the  flashes 
of  the  bursting  shells  like  twinkling  stars.  Those  glittering 
jewels  sparkled  in  constellations,  six  or  more  at  a  time,  and 
there  was  never  a  minute  without  the  glint  of  them.     It  was 


THE     MEN     IN     KHAKI  365 

not  hard  to  imagine  the  terror  of  men  crouching  in  pits  below 
that  storm  of  fire,  smashing  down  upon  their  trenches,  cutting 
up  their  barbed  wire  entanglements,  killing  any  human  life 
that  could  not  hide  below  the  ground.  The  din  of  guns  was 
unceasing,  and  made  a  great  symphony  of  staccato  notes  on 
a  thunderous  instrument.  I  could  distinguish  the  sharp 
crack  of  the  field  batteries  and  the  deeper  boom  of  the  heavier 
guns.  When  one  of  these  spoke  there  was  a  trembling  of 
earth,  and  through  the  sky  a  great  shell  hurtled,  with  such  a 
rush  of  air  that  it  seemed  like  an  express  train  dashing 
through  an  endless  tunnel.  The  bursts  were  like  volcanos 
above  the  German  lines,  vomiting  upwards  a  vast  column  of 
black  smoke  which  stood  solid  on  the  skyline  for  a  minute  or 
more  before  being  torn  down  by  the  wind.  Something 
within  me  seemed  to  quake  at  these  engines  of  destruction, 
these  masses  of  explosive  power  sent  for  the  killing  of  men, 
invisible  there  on  the  ridge,  but  cowering  in  fear  or  lying  in 
their  blood. 

How  queer  are  the  battlefields  of  life  and  the  minds  of  men  ! 
Down  below  me,  in  a  field,  men  were  playing  a  game  of  foot- 
ball while  all  this  business  of  death  was  going  on.  Above  and 
between  the  guns  I  heard  their  shouts  and  cheers,  and  the 
shrill  whistle  for  "  half-time,"  though  there  was  no  half-time 
in  the  other  game  so  close  to  them.  Nature,  too,  was  playing, 
indifferent  to  this  bloody  business.  All  the  time,  while  the 
batteries  were  at  work,  birds  were  singing  the  spring-song  in 
ecstatic  lyrics  of  joyfulness,  and  they  went  on  far  flights 
across  a  pale  blue  lake  which  was  surrounded  by  black  moun- 
tains of  cloud. 

Another  bird  came  out,  but  with  a  man  above  its  wings. 
It  was  an  English  aeroplane  on  a  journey  of  reconnaissance 
above  the  enemy's  lines.  I  heard  the  loud  hum  of  its  engine, 
and  watched  how  its  white  wings  were  made  diaphanous  by 
the  glint  of  sun  until  it  passed  away  into  the  cloud  wrack. 

It  was  invisible  to  us  now,  but  not  to  the  enemy.  They 
had  sighted  it,  and  we  saw  their  shrapnel  searching  the  skj 


366  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

for  it.  The  airman  continued  his  journey  on  a  wide  circling 
flight,  and  we  saw  him  coming  back  unscathed. 

For  a  little  while  our  fire  slackened.  It  was  time  for  our 
infantry  attack  upon  the  line  of  trenches  which  had  sustained 
such  a  storm  of  shells.  Owing  to  the  mist  and  the  smoke 
we  could  not  see  our  men  leave  the  trenches,  nor  any  sign  of 
that  great  test  of  courage  when  each  man  depends  upon  the 
strength  of  his  own  heart,  and  has  no  cover  behind  which  to 
hide  any  fear  that  may  possess  him.  What  were  those 
cheers  ?  Still  the  football  players,  or  our  soldiers  scaling  the 
ridge?  Was  it  only  a  freak  of  imagination  that  made  us  see 
masses  of  dark  figures  moving  over  that  field  in  the  mist.^* 
The  guns  were  firing  again  continuously,  at  longer  range,  to 
check  the  enemy's  supports. 

So  the  battle  went  on  till  darkness  began  to  creep  up  our 
hillside,  when  we  made  our  way  down  to  the  valley  road  and 
took  tea  with  some  of  the  officers  in  a  house  quite  close  to  the 
zone  of  fire.  Among  them  were  the  three  remaining  officers 
of  a  famous  regiment  —  all  that  were  left  out  of  those  who 
had  come  to  France  in  August  of  1914.  They  were  quite 
cheerful  in  their  manner  and  made  a  joke  or  two  when  there 
was  any  chance.  One  of  them  was  cutting  up  a  birthday 
cake,  highly  emblazoned  with  sugar-plums  and  sent  out  by 
a  pretty  sister.  It  was  quite  a  pleasant  little  party  in  the 
battle  zone,  and  there  was  a  discussion  on  the  subject  of  tem- 
perance, led  by  an  officer  who  was  very  keen  on  total  prohi- 
bition. The  guns  did  not  seem  to  matter  very  much  as  one 
sat  in  that  cozy  room  among  those  cheery  men.  It  was  only 
when  we  were  leaving  that  one  of  them  took  a  friend  of  mine 
on  one  side,  and  said  in  a  kind  of  whisper,  "  This  war!  .  .  . 
It's  pretty  rough,  isn't  it?  I'm  one  of  the  last  men  out  of 
the  original  lot.  And,  of  course,  I'm  sure  to  get  '  pipped ' 
in  a  week  or  two.     On  the  law  of  averages,  you  know." 

A  few  days  later  I  saw  the  wounded  of  Neuve  Chapelle, 
which  was  a  victory  bought  at  a  fearful  price.  They  were 
streaming  down  to  Boulogne,  and  the  hospital  ships  were 


THE     MEN     IN     KHAKI  SG7 

crowded  with  them.  Among  them  were  thousands  of  Indians 
who  had  taken  a  big  share  in  that  battle. 

With  an  Oriental  endurance  of  pain,  beyond  the  courage 
of  most  Western  men,  these  men  made  no  moan.  The  Sikhs, 
with  their  finely  chiseled  features  and  dreamy,  inscrutable 
eyes  —  many  of  them  bearded  men  who  have  served  for 
twenty  years  in  the  Indian  army  —  stared  about  them  in  an 
endless  reverie  as  though  puzzling  out  the  meaning  of  this 
war  among  peoples  who  do  not  speak  their  tongue,  for  some 
cause  they  do  not  understand,  and  in  a  climate  which  makes 
the  whole  world  different  to  them.  What  a  strange,  bewilder- 
ing mystery  it  must  have  seemed  to  these  men,  who  had  come 
here  in  loyalty  to  the  great  Raj  in  whom  they  had  faith  and 
for  whom  they  were  glad  to  die.  They  seemed  to  be  search- 
ing out  of  the  soul  of  the  war,  to  find  its  secret. 

The  weeks  have  passed  since  then,  and  the  war  goes  on,  and 
the  wounded  still  stream  back,  and  white  men  as  well  as  dark 
men  ask  God  to  tell  them  what  all  this  means ;  and  can  find  no 
answer  to  the  problem  of  the  horror  which  has  engulfed  hu- 
manity and  made  a  jungle  of  Europe  in  which  we  fight  like 
beasts. 


CONCLUSION 

IN   this   book   I   have   set   down   simply   the   scenes   and 
character  of  this   war   as   they  have  come  before   my 
own  eyes  and  as  I  have  studied  them  for  nearly  a  year 
of  history.     If  there  is  any  purpose  in  what  I  have  written 
beyond  mere  record  it  is  to  reveal  the  soul  of  war  so  nakedly 
that  it  cannot  be  glossed  over  by  the  glamour  of  false  senti- 
ment and  false  heroics.     More  passionate  than  any  other 
emotion  that  has  stirred  me  through  life,  is  my  conviction  that 
any  man  who  has  seen  these  things  must,  if  he  has  any  gift 
of  expression,  and  any  human  pity,  dedicate  his  brain  and 
heart  to  the  sacred  duty  of  preventing  another  war  like  this. 
A  man  with  a  pen  in  his  hand,  however  feeble  it  may  be,  must 
use  it  to  tell  the  truth  about  the  monstrous  horror,  to  etch  its 
images  of  cruelty  into  the  brains  of  his  readers,  and  to  tear 
down  the  veils  by  which  the  leaders  of  the  peoples  try  to  con- 
ceal its  obscenities.     The  conscience  of  Europe  must  not  be 
lulled  to  sleep  again  by  the  narcotics  of  old  phrases  about 
"  the  ennobling  influence  of  war  "  and  its  "  purging  fires." 
It  must  be  shocked  by  the  stark  reality  of  this  crime  in  which 
all  humanity  is  involved,  so  that  from  all  the  peoples  of  the 
civilized  world  there  will  be  a  great  cry  of  rage  and  horror 
if  the  spirit  of  militarism  raises  its  head  again  and  demands 
new  sacrifices  of  blood  and  life's  beauty.     The  Germans  have 
revealed  the  meaning  of  war,  the  devilish  soul  of  it,  in  a  full 
and  complete  way,  with  a  most  ruthless  logic.     The  chiefs  of 
their  great  soldier  caste  have  been  more  honest  than  ourselves 
in  the  business,  with  the  honesty  of  men  who,  knowing  that 
war  is  murder,  have  adopted  the  methods  of  murderers,  whole- 
heartedly, with  all  the  force  of  their  intellect  and  genius,  not 

weakened  by  any  fear  of  public  opinion,  by  any  prick  of 

368 


CONCLUSION  369 

conscience,  or  by  any  sentiment  of  compassion.  Their  logic 
seems  to  me  flawless,  though  it  is  diabolical.  If  it  is  permis- 
sible to  hurl  millions  of  men  against  each  other  with  machinery 
which  makes  a  wholesale  massacre  of  life,  tearing  up  trenches, 
blowing  great  bodies  of  men  to  bits  with  the  single  shot  of  a 
great  gun,  strewing  battlefields  with  death,  and  destroying 
undefended  towns  so  that  nothing  may  live  in  their  ruins,  then 
it  is  foolish  to  make  distinctions  between  one  way  of  death 
and  another,  or  to  analyze  degrees  of  horror.  Asphyxiating 
gas  is  no  worse  than  a  storm  of  shells,  or  if  worse,  then  the 
more  effective. 

The  lives  of  non-combatants  are  not  to  be  respected  any 
more  than  the  lives  of  men  in  uniform,  for  modern  war  is  not 
a  military  game  between  small  bodies  of  professional  soldiers, 
as  in  the  old  days,  but  a  struggle  to  the  death  between  one 
people  and  another.  The  blockading  of  the  enemy's  ports, 
the  slow  starvation  of  a  besieged  city,  which  is  allowed  by 
military  purists  of  the  old  and  sentimental  school,  does  not 
spare  the  non-combatant.  The  woman  with  a  baby  at  her 
breast  is  drained  of  her  mother's  milk.  There  is  a  massacre 
of  innocents  by  poisonous  microbes.  So  why  be  illogical  and 
pander  to  false  sentiment?  Why  not  sink  the  Lusitania  and 
set  the  waves  afloat  with  the  little  corpses  of  children  and  the 
beauty  of  dead  women.''  It  is  but  one  more  incident  of  horror 
in  a  war  which  is  all  horror.  Its  logic  is  unanswerable  in  the 
Euclid  of  Hell.  ...  It  is  war,  and  when  millions  of  men  set 
out  to  kill  each  other,  to  strangle  the  enemy's  industries,  to 
ruin,  starve,  and  annihilate  him,  so  that  the  women  may  not 
breed  more  children,  and  so  that  the  children  shall  perish  of 
widespread  epidemics,  then  a  few  laws  of  chivalry,  a  little  pity 
here  and  there,  the  recognition  of  a  Hague  Treaty,  are  but 
foolishness,  and  the  weak  jugglings  of  men  who  try  to  soothe 
their  conscience  with  a  few  drugged  tabloids.  That  at  least 
is  the  philosophy  of  the  German  war  lords,  and  granted  the 
premises  that  war  may  be  waged  by  one  people  against 
another,  it  seems  to  me  sound  and  flawless  in  its  abomination. 


S70  THE     SOUL     OF     THE     WAR 

Germany  thnist  this  thing  upon  Europe  deliberately  and 
after  careful  preparation.     Upon  the  heads  of  their  diplo- 
mats and  princes  are  the  blood  and  the  guilt  of  it,  and  they 
stand  before  the  world  as  murderers  with  red  hands  and  blood- 
shot eyes,  and  souls  as  black  as  hell.     In  this  war  of  self- 
defense  we  are  justified  and  need  no  special  pleading  to  pro- 
claim our  cause.     We  did  not  want  this  war,  and  we  went 
to  the  extreme  limit  of  patience  to  avoid  it.     But  if  there 
is  to  be  any  hope  for  humanity  we  must  go  deeper  into  the 
truth  than  the  mere  analysis  of  White  Papers  and  Yellow 
Papers  with  diplomatic  correspondence.     We  must  ask  our- 
selves whether  in  England,  France,  or  Russia,  "  the  defenders 
of  modern  civilization,"  there  was  any  sincerity  of  belief  in 
the  ideals  and  faith  for  which  civilization  stands.     Did  the 
leaders  of  modern  thought  do  anything  with  their  genius  or 
their  knowledge  to  break  down  old  frontiers  of  hatred,  to 
enlighten  the  ignorance  between  one  nation  and  another,  or 
to  put  such  power  into  the  hands  of  peoples  that  they  might 
have  strength  to  resist  the  tyranny  of  military  castes  and 
of  military  ideals?     Have  not  our  politicians  and  our  teach- 
ers, with  few  exceptions,  used  all  their  influence  to  foster  dark 
old  superstitions  which  lurk  in  such  good  words  as  those  of 
patriotism  and  honor,  to  keep  the  people  blind  so  that  they 
might  not  see  the  shining  light  of  liberty,  and  to  adulterate 
the  doctrine  of  Christ,  which  most  of  them  profess,  by  a  gos- 
pel of  international  jealousy  based  upon  trade  interests  and 
commercial  greed?     The  military  castes  have  been  supported 
in  Europe  by  putting  the  spell  of  old  traditions  upon  simple 
peoples.     The  Christian  Churches  have  bolstered  them  up 
and  failed  utterly  to  preach  the  words  of  peace  because  in 
the  heart  of  the  priest  there  is  the  patriot,  so  that  every 
Christian   nation    claims   God    as    a   national   asset   leading 
its  battalions.     There  will  be  no  hope  of  peace  until  the 
peoples  of  the  world  recognize  their  brotherhood  and  refuse 
to  be  led  to  the  shambles  for  mutual  massacre.     If  there  is 
no  hope  of  that,  if,  as  some  students  of  life  hold,  war  will 


CONCLUSION  371 

always  happen  because  life  itself  is  a  continual  warfare, 
and  one  man  lives  only  at  the  expense  of  another,  then  there 
is  no  hope,  and  all  the  ideals  of  men  striving  for  the  progress 
of  mankind,  all  the  dreams  of  poets  and  the  sacrifices  of 
scientists,  are  utterly  vain  and  foolish,  and  pious  men  should 
pray  God  to  touch  this  planet  with  a  star  and  end  the  folly 
of  it  all. 


ro 

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en 

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